


Drawings of You

by Gem_Gem, KittieHill



Series: Kittie And Gem Stories [19]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry John, Attempt at humour, Awkward Dates, Awkward Life Drawing, Banter, Barter System, Confused John, Defensive John, Drawing, F/M, Flirting, Flirting John, Frottage, Hard drive with story on broken, Jealous Sherlock, John Goes on Dates, John goes on way too many dates, John is a Bit Not Good, John is a Mess, Light Angst, M/M, Naked John Watson, Oblivious John, On Hiatus, Oral Sex, Scar, Sexual Tension, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Sherlock's Violin, Story on Hiatus, Talented Sherlock, failed dates, self-conscious John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-04 03:20:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 33,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13355418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill/pseuds/KittieHill
Summary: "Right – Tell me again why I’m the one getting bollock naked in front of a room full of strangers?" John asked tensely.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> We wrote this probably in 2015, and it's taken us this long to bother to edit it and post it.  
> We always wanted to, as we both enjoyed writing it, but our minds wandered onto other stories during that time, full of inspiration and energy, and then we forgot about it, and then our motivation, our Muses, gave up on us and we just couldn't find it in us to bother. We focused on other things, wrote new stories to try and get back into the swing of things, and just left this story alone for some time. Alone but not deleted.
> 
> We have many stories that we started, ran out of steam/interest, and half edited, since we started writing together, and hopefully these will be edited and posted in due time. You can't rush art, as they say...or writing for that matter, and unfortunately many stories are left for a long time, gathering dust until we can reignite our spark for them.
> 
> Please let us know what you think of this!
> 
> Enjoy!

“I’m _fairly_ certain that the murderer is in this class,” Sherlock murmured, talking to himself more than to John, his long fingers curled around an A3 sketchpad and a bulging pencil case. He scanned the people already in the room from the open door, and then glanced quickly at John from the corner of his eyes. “There is a small side-room within, go inside, get undressed, and then pose in the middle of the circle which they are making around that stool. – There should be a robe in the small room, you may don it as you come out as well as afterward, but obviously you need to take it off once the class starts.”

"Right – Tell me again why _I’m_ the one getting bollock naked in front of a room full of strangers?" John asked tensely. "I mean... I know that _'for the good of the work_ ' means something to _you_ but I’d rather my cock _didn’t_ end up on the Internet."

Sherlock sighed tersely and turned to face him, blocking John’s view of the classroom, “Can you draw?” Sherlock asked with his eyebrows lifted and a smug, condescending expression on his face. He didn’t let John answer, because John was not meant to answer such an obvious question. “No. You cannot. I _can_ —The people in this class are good artists, _very_ good, and so, obviously if you were to draw and I were to model, then the ruse would be up before it’s even begun, because you, John. Can. _Not_. Draw.”

“Right.” John looked away self-consciously before clearing his throat, "Fine. Can I... Can I not keep my vest on at least?" he asked looking at his shoes and grimacing in faint shame. "My scar... I don't... normally I wouldn't... let anyone see it. And, well, surely they must sketch models with clothes on at some stage?"

“No, they expect you naked,” Sherlock said curtly and somewhat coldly, yet his eyes softened as he darted his gaze over John’s clearly grimacing face. “I don’t see why you are ashamed by it? You should be proud—Anyway, I’m sure no one will have anything negative to say about it. In fact, the scar will be the most interesting thing to them; I’d even go as far as to say they’d be utterly _fascinated_ by it. Artists love texture and lines and unique bumps and dips. Life Drawing models come in all shapes and sizes because it is required – It’s not like on the television or in the movies, where the model is strikingly beautiful and caked in abysmal makeup. The models that walk through _that_ door are ordinary people, with ordinary, perfectly, imperfect bodies. The challenge of the imperfections and irregularities in your form will be just what they want.”

“Yeah, thanks for that,” John muttered sarcastically, crossing his arms.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Its just skin, John.”

“Yes, but it’s _my_ skin,” John growled under his breath, shifting his stance and then rubbing the bridge of his nose nervously, smiling tight with annoyance. “How long do these classes usually last?”

“It depends,” Sherlock drawled, sighing when John lifted his eyebrows with expectance. “This class is running for the duration of two hours, though it could go over or under, it really just depends on the amount of artists, if the room has been booked for a later class, or on the model’s schedule.”

“And I _really_ have to be the model for this? You can’t just – oh I don’t know – get someone else? Wait for the _actual_ model to turn up?” John asked, feeling his temples throb with an oncoming migraine. “Look, I just…I don’t feel comfortable doing this. It wouldn’t have been so bad if you had talked to me about this beforehand, but no, _God no_ , we couldn’t have that, could we? That would have been too easy. Too simple. Too _normal_! Instead you just had to wait until I met you here before you happened to casually mention that one of the ways I would be helping you in this case is by standing with my _knob_ out in a class _full_ of art students!”

“You _are_ the model for this class,” Sherlock said without a care in the world for John’s discomfort. “I phoned ahead.”

“You phoned ahead…” John repeated, clenching his hands at his sides. “So you knew that early on that I’d end up getting my kit off then? I see – Why the soddin’ hell didn’t you let me in on this?”

Sherlock frowned at him, “You really have a problem with this?”

“Yes, you _moron_!”

“So you won’t do it?” Sherlock asked with a look of incredulity that only served to make John even angrier. “I hadn’t thought it would be such an issue – You have no problem _whatsoever_ exposing yourself to a wide selection of women. You _are_ naked when you shag them aren’t you?”

“ _Fuck you_ ,” John snarled. “And you can’t use that comparison. That’s completely different! That’s sex! I don’t go into the bedroom, strip off and then stand in the centre of the room for her to ogle and draw me for an hour! – Plus there’s just her, just that _one_ woman in that hypothetical scenario, not a classroom full of people!”

“Are you going to do this or not?” Sherlock snapped at him, looking overly put-upon and annoyed.

“Can you do it without me?”

“No.”

John threw out his arms, “Then I hardly get much of a bloody say in it, do I? I either do this and you gather whatever it is you need, or I don’t and… what? Someone else dies?”

“Well,” Sherlock said, flashing John one of his forced and patronising smiles, “yes.”

“Right,” John said between his teeth. “And there is no way you can get _another_ model?”

“Life drawing models aren’t all just loitering around until someone picks them, John, like a drove of cows to the slaughter.”

“Nice metaphor, because it sure does feel like I’m going to a bloody slaughter,” John muttered, setting his jaw and giving one curt nod of determination as he lifted his chin, straightened his spine, and marched into the classroom, heading straight for the small changing room hidden off to the side without another word.

His stomach rolled at Sherlock's harshness but he supposed some of what Sherlock had said was true; the artists had come to draw average people not super models, and probably wouldn't be shocked or repulsed by the state of John’s body. How Sherlock had gotten them both into the building and the studio in such a short time, John didn’t know, and normally he’d be somewhat impressed by Sherlock’s quick thinking and even quicker actions, but as John scrubbed his face and undressed, he felt nothing but a cold, crawling dread that made him even more self-aware of the raised scar at his shoulder.

John pulled down the dressing gown that was hanging by a metal coat hanger on the small back wall, and gave it a suspicious sniff before he wrapped it around his nude body. He turned to go back out into the main area but paused, gave his flaccid penis a few uneasy tugs for aesthetic purposes, and then stepped out, clutching the robe closed. It was fine. It was all fine. This was nothing. Nothing he couldn’t put behind him once it was done. There was a good, moral reason for this.

The artists had formed a loose circle around the stool, just like Sherlock had said they would, leaving a gap for John to walk through to get into the centre. Sherlock had set up an easel at the right-hand side of the disjointed group, his chosen position seemingly the best vantage point for him to see the entire group without looking too suspicious. Sherlock had clipped up his sketchpad and was shaving a soft lead pencil to a sharp point with a small blade with what looked to be a practiced hand, his movements almost entirely automatic. He cast a soft smile at the woman standing beside him, his artist persona instantly and effortlessly in place. He seemed relatively normal, just another quiet, studious undergraduate in a room full of his fellow artists.

John exhaled through his nose and walked through the circle with what he hoped was a confident smile, his eyes merely meeting Sherlock's for a second before he skipped them across his face to view the others with a welcoming expression. They all seemed to be young, as he had surmised, but not so young as to make John feel overly uncomfortable. A few of them were still setting up their easels or picking a place to sit with their sketchbook laid out on their lap, and John tried desperately not to think or look at the people who were shifting to position themselves behind him, ignoring the tingling of awareness at the nape of his neck from the sense of being stared at. Standing by the stool, he bounced on the balls of his feet nervously, waiting to be given the nod to strip or to sit or pose. He wasn’t entirely sure how to proceed, having not been in such a situation before, not been directed by Sherlock to begin with, and not having enough patience or resolve to listen to him even if he had gone on to instruct John in the proceedings for a life drawing class. He decided that it would be best to wait until someone informed him of whatever position they wanted him in, when to undress, or until Sherlock made a scene and left, like he was prone to do.

“Hello,” one of the female artists greeted politely, pieces of chalk and charcoal poised skilfully between her fingers. “You’re new, I take it?”

John blinked with a rush of heat to his face, “Um--”

“It’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong or anything like that. I can just tell. I think we all can now. – Plus, I’ve been where you’re standing, having modelled once before. The pay seems great right up ‘til about now, am I right?” She chortled with a charming smile, one that squinted her eyes and brought out the dimple in one of her cheeks. John returned the smile, finding the friendly expression contagious, and she tilted her head and continued, tapping her chin with her index finger. “Um, let’s see…Mr. Smith, he’s the man who runs this class, the teacher of sorts, he’s a little…well, he’s _late_ – and it’s not the first time I can tell you – so, I think it would be good if you just…made yourself comfortable for now. Sit down and do whatever feels natural, just choose something that doesn’t feel like it’s a strain. We’ll draw you for about… ten minutes or so? Or until Mr. Smith turns up. And then we might ask for you to change positions. Okay?”

Fellow artists nodded in agreement, and one of them even crossed the room to make sure the heater was on and turned towards John, keeping him and the room contentedly warm. Sherlock caught John’s eyes and gestured at the stool impatiently, evidently agreeing with the young woman, until he flicked his attention to the sudden appearance of a man in a crumpled suit who strode into the room a second later, in a rush and slightly out of breath. The man forced a smile on his face when he saw John and then frowned, checking a folder he carried in his hands. Sherlock cocked his head, interest fixed for the moment.

“John, is it? Hello, John. I’m Andrew Smith – Please do take a seat there—I assume you’ve met the artists?” the man asked, though he didn’t seem to care for an answer as he began walking around.

The young female artist from before straightened, piping up quickly in John’s defence, despite having no real need to do so, “I told him to just sit naturally first, and that when you arrived you’d pick poses.”

The man nodded, “Yes, sure. Good idea. Perfect. – John, if you would please just pick a pose, any pose will do, but make sure it is one you are comfortable with as we shall draw it for about… 20 minutes.”

John inclined his head and inhaled deeply, gathering his courage and stamping down on both his anxiousness and self-loathing, before dropping his robe. He closed his eyes and steadied himself, and then sat down on the stool with his legs spread very slightly. He wondered idly if it was the best position, sitting with his bollocks fully on view, but he shook the thought away and let his forearms rest on his thighs, opening his eyes and focussing on a point directly left of Sherlock. It helped to look near Sherlock, to see a familiar face, and one he trusted no matter how hard he wanted to strangle him, and so he let that fact calm his thudding heart.

From his peripheral vision John saw that the female artist gave him a thumbs up as she disappeared behind her easel, as did most of the others, and he felt himself relax a fraction or two more. The man, Mr. Smith, silently walked around behind everyone as they worked and only stopped to murmur encouragements or criticisms as he went, his smile still forced and his stride lazy.

Sherlock inspected him with interest and then turned his attention to John with a quirk of his mouth, his eyes running over John’s naked frame before he brushed a fingertip over his pencils in thought, picking one slowly and thoughtfully. Sherlock stared at John a moment more than he possibly should do, and then lifted his pencil to the sketchpad with purpose. The movements of his hand were skilful and confident, and the flash of his eyes over the top of the easel made something twitch and flare in John’s gut, making his heart unexpectedly race and his skin to flush.

John blinked and quickly lowered his eyes to the floor with a faint frown, trying not to move even as he felt the need to cover himself and bolt from the room grow. The echoing tendrils from the abrupt blaze of sensation gathered between his legs and John swallowed, cursing mentally as his penis thickened faintly, nestling up against his upper thigh. What had that been? What was he doing? What was his bloody penis doing? It wasn’t something he wanted to linger on, especially not doing what he was doing. It wasn’t the time or the place. Although John was fairly certain that there wasn’t a time or place for whatever had just happened, because whatever had just happened shouldn’t have happened, at all.

Taking his mind of it, he instead let his thoughts settle on something else, on the pose he’d chosen and the people who were staring at him. It felt very unusual to be sitting in a room full of fully dressed strangers. He felt exposed and vulnerable, both because of his obvious nudity and his obvious inexperience, and watched the young and quite attractive young men and women study his physique with concentration and appraisal. It was a rather strange thought to know that people would be taking home a graphite representation of him when the class was done. Would they keep it? Or would they throw it away? What if it found its way into a gallery somewhere? Would it be so realistic that it would be instantly recognisable? Did he care either way?

John caught the eye of one of the artists as they stared blatantly at his scar and tensed with a flicker of awkwardness and shame. His thoughts immediately stuttered and turned to every ex-lover and various random, faceless, women whom he had met for various one-night stands over the years. Most of them had ignored the scar or turned away from it, but one had actually asked John to put his vest back on as it was making her feel ill and ruining the ‘mood,’ to which he had kicked her out of the flat, vowing to never have a one-night stand again.

Sherlock grabbed his attention with a flourish of his hand and a drag of his pencil on paper, and glared at him, shaking his head slowly in annoyance. Somehow, it seemed, he knew what John had been debating and nervously pondering. John wondered, and not for the first time, how Sherlock was able to tell so accurately what he was thinking. Was it really so obvious? Sherlock arched his eyebrows, gestured to the other artists around him slightly, and mimed the words, “it’s fine,” before he went back to his drawing, ducking his head as Mr. Smith wandered over to him in his continued perusal of the room and the progressing drawings.

John returned the glare, making sure he knew he was doing it to him the next time he peeked over at John from behind his easel. What did he know about self-confidence? The man might as well have been a Greek bloody statue. What with his ethereal pale skin, sharp cheekbones and athletic physique, unblemished by nothing but freckles, he would never feel the sting of rejection or the pain of being told he turned someone’s stomach. John attempted to clear the anger from his face, unwilling to show it to the rest of the group, and sat with his head high, taking deep, calming breaths and fighting the urge to speak up and leave. He had to be here. It had to be done. He wouldn’t be doing it at all if it weren’t for a good cause.

The female artist from before was staring at him, and as he locked gazes with her subtly, she winked at him, smiled, and then quickly showed him her work. As she did so, her finger smudged a line that somehow became his ear and John blinked at it, incredibly impressed. The picture was the top part of John’s head and shoulders, and the detail in the scar, as well as his features and muscles, was rather astoundingly realistic. John was stunned by the quick, small amount of the artists’ work; it was fantastic considering they had only been working for approximately six minutes, and he found himself unable to stop grinning like an idiot in response. Despite not exactly enjoying the sight of his horrid scar, he couldn’t help but be both flattered and amazed. She gave him another thumbs up and then went back to work, murmuring to the artist next to her and exchanging a stick of chalk. John supposed that, regardless of the how and the why of his being there, at least he would leave with a friend at the end of it. Perhaps more, if he played his cards right.

“You’re new here too, aren’t you?” John suddenly heard Mr. Smith whispering to Sherlock, forced smile still in place. “I don’t recognise your face, and I’m _awfully_ good with faces.”

“Yes,” Sherlock smiled in reply, his smile was just as forced but ten times more believable. “I heard some great things from this class—I was curious. You don’t mind, do you?”

“What? No. Of course not! The more the merrier,” Mr. Smith told him, clapping Sherlock on the back, thankfully unable to see the tensed expression of dislike that passed over Sherlock’s face the second he touched him. Sherlock dipped his head and looked mock-shyly away, and John strained his ears, trying to listen into the conversation with the creepy Mr. Smith and his fake smile.

“Great,” Sherlock replied, pointedly trying to end the exchange as he stared at his sketchpad and brought up another, thicker, pencil. However, Mr. Smith’s hand was still on Sherlock’s back and Sherlock glanced up at him with another, more forced, smile. “…What do you think of my work so far?”

“Fantastic,” Mr. Smith replied, bending close and glancing from Sherlock’s drawing to John and back again, reviewing the lines and shapes of both. “Nice lines. Brilliant shading…and _superb_ expression in the eyes.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock preened, enjoying the praise but not his presence.

“How long have you been drawing for?”

Sherlock looked fleetingly at John, as if embarrassed or uneasy, “A…long time,” he laughed softly, grinding his teeth when Mr. Smith continued to smile at him and then proceeded to rub his shoulder. “It’s always been a passion of mine. One of many.” 

There were minute tells in Sherlock’s tone that told John all he needed to know about his rising frustration, but John figured that the detective could bloody well suck it up, considering he was not the one with his bollocks on display, and so John kept his eyes glued to the wall just over Sherlock’s shoulder. He couldn’t exactly help Sherlock anyway. It would be suspicious. It could spoil whatever the bloody hell they were doing. Therefore he played ignorant to the way Sherlock’s eyes flickered up and over to John a few more times during his strained conversation with Mr. Smith, something which only increased in number the moment the man finally stepped away.

After a few seconds, John allowed their gazes to meet and arched one eyebrow in question. Sherlock rolled one shoulder in reply, irritated, and wrinkled his nose at the man’s retreating back, giving John a vague hand signal that looked oddly crude.

John tried not to smirk and returned his eyes to the floor, feeling a prickling of warmth radiating from the centre of his chest. It changed direction when he caught Sherlock’s gaze again and filled his ears until they flushed, then shot down to heat his pelvis, causing his penis to give another soft, distant throb.

Was it the thrill of being looked at by Sherlock? John swallowed nervously and tried to think of something else, anything else, and ran his eyes over the surrounding artists to distract himself.

A large portion of them were female. Pretty young things with soft skin and softer looking hair, and if they had noticed the change in his genitals, they probably thought he was the biggest old pervert in the world. Although, some part of John wondered briefly if they might be impressed with what he had to offer, instead of repulsed or amused, and he held back a sudden build up of laughter and smirked quickly before calming, focussing on a spot on the floor and trying his hardest to blank his mind.

When the twenty minutes were ultimately over, Mr. Smith clapped his hands, looked pointedly at his watch, and then walked back a few steps to take in the whole class, “ _Right_! I think we should challenge ourselves,” he told them as they all stopped and looked at him. “John will take different standing positions for 30 seconds each, and I want you all to _quickly_ draw the pose using _only_ lines. Do this as quickly, but as accurately, as you can—John, you don’t mind do you? All you need to do is stand in different poses. All right?”

"Er...yeah, yeah fine," John nodded and cleared his throat, standing and shaking his legs out. He straightened his spine, pulled back his shoulders, pushed his heels together, and tilting his nose in the air, standing to attention tautly. The stance was one he’d adopted many times before and was strangely soothing in its familiarity. He took in a steady, slow, deep breath, glanced at Sherlock, and gave him a twitch of one eyebrow. He wanted to know if the murderer was truly in the room and how long he had to go on baring his all to complete strangers. He wanted to go home. Go home and forget.

Unfortunately for him, Sherlock had his head cocked and was biting his bottom lip in concentration, his eyes running over John’s body repeatedly as he turned to a new, blank page in his sketchpad without looking. Clearly this façade would be going on for a lot longer than John liked. Was Sherlock even paying attention to the class? Was the killer in the room? Had he narrowed his search? Had he done anything other than stare and draw John’s naked body?

Mr. Smith smiled a wide, unsettling, irksome smile at everyone, eyed John’s pose, took out his phone to use as a stopwatch, and signalled for them all to start drawing the pose with a sweep of his hand. Sherlock ducked behind his easel quickly, his pencil moving across the paper in loud, broad stripes, and his eyes flicked back to John briefly, gleaming with smugness. He completely ignored any sign or signal that John tried to flash his way, his attention on the shape and poise of his body, and after a second or two, John gave up trying.

With a deep exhale through his nose, John inwardly rolled his eyes, but remained still, unable to do much more than that. He couldn’t very well find the murderer himself, not without Sherlock’s guidance, not with his role in this charade well and truly in place. Nevertheless, as the minutes ticked on, John tried to look around the room again, scanning the faces, bodies and clothes of those around him in vain.

After his third quick sweep, he heard Mr. Smith give the times up signal and changed to standing with his hands on his hips, widening his stance and looking off to the right side, annoyed, nervous and self-conscious, and hoping none of it showed.

Sherlock snorted softly at John, at the pose, and then dipped behind his easel again when Mr. Smith started the timer once more. Mr. Smith wanted 10 more poses from John before he took the choice away from him and told John to take up a new position with direction from him. He requested for John to continue to stand, but to lean on the stool with his hands for support, telling John to curl his fingers over the edge and lean most, if not all, of his weight on his palms.

The female artist winked at John again friendlily as he got into position and then mimed that he had good muscle structure while everyone turned to another blank piece of paper to begin drawing again. She was the only one to try and engage him in both conversation and eye contact, excluding Sherlock, of course.

The detective was rearranging his pencils, his fingertips smudged grey and his eyes narrowed in attentiveness as he gazed at John and traced an invisible line from the back of John’s neck to his feet and back with one finger, tilting his head.

John quickly returned his focus to the woman, smiling at his newest friend, and blushing at her clear playfulness and interest, and flexed his muscles tighter than was strictly necessary, hoping to impress her. In the back of his mind he knew how it looked, not just to Sherlock but to everyone, yet he couldn’t help the mischievous response and even found himself tightening his glutes with a somewhat friendly smile. All the while being very aware of his nakedness and the fact his cock was still quite interested.

She glanced around and then gestured to herself, gradually miming the words, “My name’s Melissa. Coffee?”

Surprised and extremely flattered, if a little suspicious, John nodded with a grin, suddenly feeling more confident. With this new confidence came a sort of arrogance, and when Mr. Smith asked for him to change, he didn’t give the man a chance to suggest something, merely dropped instantly down to a push up position, taking away one hand, and balancing on his good arm with tensing muscles. The burn felt good, made him remember being back at the army barracks, surging through drills and fooling around with the other soldiers. It also, John hoped, made his arse look good.

Melissa lifted her eyebrows, stunned and delighted with the show, her hips canting appealingly in response. Sherlock, however, was not as enthralled, and scoffed, rolling his eyes. He looked sulky and overly annoyed when John met his gaze, though he blanked his expression and turned back to his easel a second later, waiting for Mr. Smith to tell them to start drawing. Sherlock’s shoulders were slumped and relaxed, as if nothing were amiss, but the way he was hiding his face and the sharp tapping of his foot, gave away his annoyance.

Internally just as annoyed at Sherlock's impatience and obvious, unneeded, irritation, John focussed instead on Melissa. She was sweet and slightly younger than John would normally look for, yet she had the prettiest lips John had seen in a while and she was clearly interested in him. Had been since the start. John, himself, had already been planning to ask her out on a proper date after the class, wondering when he could kiss those delicious looking lips of hers.

Would they taste of lip balm? He could tell she was wearing something, as her mouth glistened under the studio lights, but it wasn’t as flashy and attention seeking as many lipsticks or lip-glosses could be. Whatever it was, it captured John’s imagination and interest for such a long period of time, filling his mind and gaze with glistening, slick pink, that he almost missed the clapping of Mr Smith's hands to indicate it was break time.

As they all packed up and filed out of the warm room, the artists all thanked and smiled at John, complimenting him on his poses and body image, and even bringing over their drawings and sketches for his personal opinion.

Melissa, throughout it all, held back and waited for John to put on his robe, and for the room to be almost empty, before she walked over to him. She patted his covered arm with the hand that wasn’t covered in chalk and charcoal and gave him a wide, flirtatious and friendly grin. John’s attention was drawn to the slick pink of her lips again.

“That was great! _Honestly_! You were _really_ good, despite it being your first time. – Are you going to come back another time? After today, I mean?” Melissa asked him, her gaze dropping to his muscled legs and then his neck with brief, skimming, eager eyes.

"I don't know yet," John replied, tying the sash of the robe closed as he looked her up and down. She was prettier up close. "It depends. Will you be here to keep me company?" Grabbing a bottle of water from the side he smiled at her. "Its not very often I find pretty girls staring at me naked, sadly."

Melissa touched his arm again, playfully rolling her eyes, “ _Oh yeah_ , sure. – Stop it. You’re such a liar!” she snorted with laughter, angling her hips again and suggestively licking her lips. “I’m in this class _every_ Monday, Wednesday, and Friday--”

“Oh.” One of Sherlock’s pencils dropped loudly to the floor in that moment, cutting her off, and he winced, bending to pick it up with a shy smile, “Sorry,” he mumbled to her, his persona still in place and his face and posture horridly believable. John knew better. He could see the tension and almost feel the irritation pouring off the man in sharp, dangerous waves.

Melissa smiled at Sherlock and then looked back at John with wide pupils, “So…after the next half of this class, do you want to go for coffee? I know just the place. Sells _great_ coffee. I’m a regular. – Though I know I should really cut down.”

John smiled softly and nodded, "Absolutely. In fact, it’ll be my treat, seeing as you’ve made me out to be twenty times more handsome than I am. Perhaps more than that. I’m really quite flattered with your art. – I refuse to believe I'm _that_ buff," he chuckled, taking a sip of his water. "Are there any positions you prefer? -- For modelling I mean?"

“Oh yeah. _Many_ ,” Melissa replied with an attractive wrinkle of her nose, opening her mouth to continue to speak before Sherlock purposely pushed past them with another, meek, apology.

“Sorry,” he said as he shuffled between them with a nervous laugh. “Sorry, um, I just…just need to sharpen my pencil…”

Melissa stepped back to let him by and then eyed John as she turned to make her way towards the door, “I’m going to get something to drink and possibly eat, then I’ll be back with the rest of the class—I’d start thinking up more artistic and impressive poses, if I were you,” she said and winked at John as she stepped out.

"I'll do that." John nodded to her, listening to her footsteps and turning to Sherlock with a mock-friendly smile. "So, need any help with the sharpening of your pencils?" he asked, watching as Melissa walked away, waiting until she was all but out of view before dropping his voice and abruptly, roughly, heatedly, seething. "Sherlock, _what the hell_? Stop cock blocking me! I'm _definitely_ in with a chance with her. What’s _wrong_ with you?"

“We are not here for you to _get_ _off_ , John,” Sherlock snapped, back to himself the second Melissa was gone. “Do not forget why we are here in the first place! Have you forgotten that there is a _murderer_ about? – This is a _case_! A job! This is not an opportunity for you to flirt with women half your age!”

John gritted his teeth, feeling only slightly abashed, and took a deep inhale, "But _look_ at her! She's… Christ she's _gorgeous_!" he said in a low mutter, laughing shortly, and then trying for jovial when he next spoke. "You might be here for the brainwork, the puzzle, and the murder, but I'm just here so you don’t get punched or killed. That’s our role. – Anyway, I can still watch your back whilst trying to look at her front."

Sherlock scowled at him, “No. I _forbid_ it,” he growled and stormed back to his easel, slamming down his pencil. “We are _both_ here for the murder. I need you to focus. I need you to be thinking with your head, not your _cock_!” Sherlock blinked rapidly and huffed as his voice echoed around the room. He leaned forward with a sneer. “You _always_ do this! Can you not put aside your pathetic sexual appetite until after we solve the case? Once it’s done, you can hump whatever happens your way and drool after pubescent girls till your heart’s content!”

" _Jesus_ , it's not like I'm going to pounce on her in the middle of the bloody art studio," John grumbled and scrubbed his face, feeling awkward. Was he really so bad? No, he couldn’t be. Yes, sex and women were two things that he was deeply invested in but he wasn’t some horny bastard who’d sleep with anything with legs. Those days were over. He looked up at Sherlock and then suddenly frowned, going over what the detective had said. "Wait a second, did you seriously say that you ‘forbid it’? You can forbid my arse mate! You don’t _own_ me! You’re not my keeper. I don’t have to run things by you before I do anything. _God_. Who do you think you are?"

Sherlock stared him until he’d finished talking and then turned his easel away from John’s eyes subtly, “I _dislike_ her.”

“Yeah? Well too bad. Because I _like_ her. There’s nothing wrong with her. She’s nice and she has…good lips,” John mumbled, ignoring the look Sherlock shot his way.

 

* * *

When Mr Smith returned to the room, he smiled at his students, counting them with a flitting of his gaze, and then nodded to John to take his position by the stool once more.

He gave a brief explanation of how he wanted John to pose in more action-based poses. Poses that created long lines or that made compacted shapes, and John frowned thoughtfully, deciding in the end to focus back on his army days once more. With a brief glance at an irate Sherlock, an engaging Melissa, and a creepily smiling Mr Smith, John shifted, angled his feet, widened his stance, and muscles standing proud with power and strength, moved his arms as though he was holding a gun, ready to fire.

Melissa smiled at him flirtatiously and with one lingering look at his chest, she turned to her easel and began to work along with all the other artists when Mr. Smith set a time for the pose. She wasn’t half his age. That was too young. She was early twenties, sure. Twenty-one. No, probably twenty-three. Not his age, though not just out of high school or anything. What was Sherlock’s issue?

One glance at the man in question showed that he was staring at John from under his brow, and he didn’t move for a few long seconds, just stared with a gathering scowl that rippled in and out of existence. He then scanned the artists intensely as he went behind his easel, hiding from John’s sight, and began drawing with angry, jerky, somewhat loud scrapes of his pencil.

John ignored him, not really able to do much more than that any way, and plotted the next pose carefully; his eyes hovering on the wall beside Melissa until Mr Smith said time was up. How did people do this on the daily? John lowered himself to the ground, secretly adjusting his prick a bit as he lay on his side, one arm under his head and the other on his hip, his right knee touching the floor slightly. The position was the perfect way to elongate his body and outline and define the muscles of his entire body. His cock gently brushed against the carpet of the studio, the tip just peeking from beneath his foreskin, and he gave it a fleeting glance, unsure if he was relieved or disappointed that it no longer seemed interested in the proceedings.

Melissa, a few other female artists, including three males, seemed pleased and enthralled at the position and gazed at John long and hard, almost hungrily so, until Mr. Smith told them to start drawing. Sherlock, however, didn’t seem to look at John at all for the new pose and merely stayed behind his easel, his posture rigid and his arm moving smoothly over the paper with quick, rough strokes, loud in the otherwise quiet room. The artist standing next to Sherlock glanced over with a frown and then hastily looked away when Sherlock stopped to shoot them a dark look.

John didn’t much care, he revelled in the sensation of being admired, he had never felt this way before. He had felt sexy, of course, but never desired or even beautiful, something which the artists were making him feel as they studied his curves and angles, popping back and forth behind their easels and staring occasionally too intent for a tad too long. John had almost forgotten Sherlock was in the room and that they were on a case, that they were supposedly working a job, until, that is, the sounds of the detective’s rough scrawls pulled him back from his reprieve. Sherlock was dragging and digging at the paper so hard that John was surprised it didn’t rip from under him.

With a sigh through his nose, John looked back over at him, fighting not to lift his eyebrows in irritation. Sherlock’s curls were faintly visible from the top of his easel, but he didn’t look around at John for the longest time, and when he finally did, his face was impassive and his eyes were cold. He looked through John instead of at him while his hand moved effortlessly and skilfully, but coarsely, across the sketchpad, the sinews in his arm tensing and bulging with each movement.

Once the class ultimately ended, Sherlock packed up his things faster and louder than anyone else, and left with a blank expression, his sketchpad clutched in his fingers. All because John had flirted with a young art student? Really? The door slammed shut on his way out and Mr. Smith looked over in surprise, still smiling, his hands pressing to his chest in mock shock.

“He must be terribly late for something,” he laughed, making some of the other artists chuckle and smile.

Melissa huffed and then turned to show her work to John with a wink, “What do you think?”

"Hmm?" John looked at the door with a frown, too distracted for a second. "Oh, oh _wow_ , yeah that’s... impressive really." He nodded and shifted around her, smiling awkwardly. "Listen, I have to go, but let’s meet up for coffee another day? Let me give you my number and we'll arrange something?" John scribbled his number on the corner of one of her sketches without thought. "I better... get dressed…"

John took off promptly towards the changing room and closed himself in, pulling up his trousers, pants and socks, and he frowned as he thought of Sherlock's reaction. Being under cover, John hadn’t expected the usual terse ‘Come on, John’ but he’d expected his flatmate to wait in or near the changing room at least. Perhaps he was outside the room somewhere? Sulking and pacing down the corridor? Or outside, outside? Though he did often take off without a word, John supposed it wasn’t overly unusual.

Now dressed, John was briefly stopped by Mr Smith who wanted to praise him on his poses, on his patience, though John had no time for him and forced a smile, promised to come back for another session, and then left. Quickly making his way back to Baker Street when there was no sign of the curly haired detective in the corridors or the pavement outside the building, which was both irksome and worrisome.

Sherlock wasn’t at the flat either. There was no sign he had even stopped off there, and he didn’t respond to any texts or calls that John shot his way, then abruptly turned up approaching ten o’clock at night without a word. John turned in his chair to watch him shut the living room door, coat and scarf missing and hung at the front door, sketchpad clutched under his arm, pencil case in hand, and glared when Sherlock ignored John completely, walking to his bedroom in several long strides with barely a passing glance.

" _Sherlock_?" John called out, the scotch he’d been nursing sloshing as he twisted. At no response from his friend, John glared harder. "There's dinner in the microwave."

“Not hungry,” Sherlock replied tonelessly and slammed his bedroom door shut behind him.

With a gigantic sigh, John moved from his seat, put down the glass, and stormed towards the door, "Sherlock, I don’t know _what’s_ going on but knock it off. You can't pick and choose who I date, and you sure as hell can’t _forbid_ it. Stop being an arse and come out here so I can make you tea at least." John grimaced, realising how much the statement actually made him sound more like a wife than flatmate. "Let’s talk about it, yeah? The case?"

“No. Do what you want. _Go away_ ,” came Sherlock’s reply from the other side, along with a thump that sounded like a balled up sock being thrown at the door. John hoped it was a balled up sock.

"Fine! Fine, that’s it. That’s all you’re getting from me, you great massive tit. I'm going to bed. I'm tired and _pissed off_ and I missed out on a date so I could follow _you_ , so do what _you_ want. Sit there and sulk for all I care!"

The door swung open and Sherlock leaned out, almost bumping noses with John, “You gave her your number,” he stated in a monotone.

"Yes. Yes I did," John challenged.

“She won’t call you,” Sherlock told him, lifting his eyebrows and flashing John one of his snide and overly disdainful smiles. “But you probably already knew that. Right? You probably already knew that she has done the same thing to _three_ other male models. That she has their numbers too. That she is not only some sort of pitiable sexual _deviant_ , but that she’s also a rather big _suspect_ in the murder of the art student, Colin Bourne. Why? Good question. Perhaps it’s because after the Life Drawing class, when you came back here, _stupidly_ thinking I had ignored the fact that we were there on a _case_ , I followed her. I followed her and _spoke_ to her. Spoke to the entire class, actually. She, Melissa Hill, had been dating the dead student for only a week before he died. She also dated _another_ poor unfortunate man, who just so happened to turn up in a ditch _three months ago_.”

" _What_? Really? So she's the murderer?" John gaped. " _Christ_... a murderer has seen my cock...that’s not something I thought would happen…or that I’d say…"

Sherlock pursed his lips tightly and then sighed, “No. She isn’t. I _thought_ she might be, but she checks out fine. She’s just a sexually active female,” he muttered.

" _Oh_ bloody hell Sherlock! You _twat_ " John grumbled. "So she’s not a murderer? She just likes sex. – Surprising that for a pretty, young woman." John turned, signalling for Sherlock to just stop pouting and have a cuppa and moved to put on the kettle. "So _why_ did you leave?--"

“The _point_ is, she could have been, John. You don’t _think_ , you never think, you just see a young, attractive face and automatically want to get them into bed,” Sherlock complained as he shuffled after John, his feet bare dragging. So it had been balled up socks. Thank God. Perhaps John was learning a thing or two from Sherlock? “You _really_ are attracted to danger, aren’t you? Must be, to be so utterly single-mindedly _stupid_!”

" _Hold on_. You mess around with acid, dead things, chemicals and guns, sometimes all at once, yet _I'm_ the one who is attracted to danger? Just because I have the biological urge to have sex? – That’s normal, Sherlock. It's _normal_ to want to indulge in sexual intercourse with somebody else instead of relying on half-arsed wanks in the shower," John griped, apprehending too little too late that he had said too much. "I just... _occasionally_ I’d prefer to have _actual_ sex and not to have to come looking for you because you're sulking over that fact."

Sherlock fell silent for a long moment, his expression and posture giving away nothing, and then he blinked, “ _Fine_. Well, you’d be happy to know that I don’t need you any longer on this case anyway. You may date and bed whomever you please. Enjoy the rest of your night,” he said and turned, walking back to his bedroom and slamming the door again.

John took a deep breath and tightly gripped the counter, pushing away the urge to scream. He made a cup of tea almost in spite of him, leaving Sherlock’s on the side to go cold and taking his own up to his bedroom, sitting down on the bed. Perhaps he was a little single-minded? They had been on a case together. Emphasis on ‘together.’ Despite Sherlock making John strip and sit, then stand, then sit again for half of the investigation, they were on it together, and all he could think about was following a lead to bed. He reached for and opened up his laptop, itching with suppressed anger and arousal. He could still picture her lips, her dimple when she smiled. Knowing she was quite a bit interested in sex made her all the more attractive. After a thoughtful few sips of tea, and once he’d checked his emails, John fired up the porn site he normally used, unzipping his jeans and pushing them down to his feet so he could cup and roll his cock in his hand, thinking of her, of being nude in front of her, of the way her eyes had sparkled and wandered.

Almost instantly, although it hadn’t sounded like Sherlock had left his bedroom, Sherlock began playing the violin, badly and extremely loud. The screeches and high-pitched notes echoed around the flat in a hair-raising reverberation, cutting through John’s thoughts and drowning out the moans of the woman in the video he’d chosen. John glowered heatedly, hating how he was able to tell, to figure out when he’d even start pleasuring himself. How did he know? Did he spy on him?

Looking around, just in case, John sighed angrily, "Shut up you _bastard_!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, his dick rapidly deflating. Not even the overly enthusiastic moans from his porn would help. What was the point?

Sherlock replied to his outburst with a fast paced, louder tune that held even more shuddering shrieks of strings. He played until it turned eleven thirty and then stopped abruptly. The flat was silent for four long minutes, and then the front door slammed shut, indicating Sherlock’s departure. John flipped him off and slammed his laptop closed in stubborn retaliation. God he hated living with that man sometimes.


	2. Chapter 2

John held his very lovely, very curvy date around the waist as he walked up Baker Street, feeling dread creep up his spine with each step, "We... we could always go to yours, you know? I know you have roommates but I don't mind... I... I've already explained Sherlock…"

She smiled reassuringly and shook her head, " _I_ don't mind. _Honestly_ , he can’t scare me away. I'm a _nurse_. I'll sprain his wrist," she grinned, kissing John on the cheek. "Stop worrying."

"Right...right yeah. Sorry. I just…yeah, no, you’re right," John nodded and pulled out his keys, taking a deep breath and inviting her in. "I can’t promise the flat won’t smell, or be on fire..." He grimaced. " _God_ , how I wish I didn’t have to say that."

On the first step in, nothing seemed amiss, though the entranceway never really was much fiddled with. Sherlock’s coat was still on the hook. He was in then. Crossing his fingers, John turned to take Jenna’s coat, then shrugged off his own and led the way upstairs, muttering a prayer under his breath. They paused on the landing together and he took her hand, smiling when she gave it a comforting squeeze, and finally opened the living room door.

What they saw when they stepped foot into the room, was the sight of John’s naked body. It was everywhere. Etched onto several limitless pieces of paper that had been strewn about the entire room. Images of John, of his body, hung from the walls, covered the mirror, were draped over the sofa, the chairs and the coffee table. Some were even plastered on the back of the living room door.

Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, but the drawings were clearly by his hand. The nearest drawings showcased each pose that John had performed for the Life Drawing case. The drawings were detailed, artistic, and bold, and there was something unexplainably masculine in the strength of the lines and shading. Some drawings seemed to have been done recently, depicting John in the shower behind a half pulled, opaque curtain or in midstride, towel being brought around his waist. All images were of John, parts of him as well as full studies, and all of them showed his exposed and bare form.

" _Oh_ ," John grimaced, blinking uneasily and adding a second "Oh…" for good measure. He would have preferred the flat to be on fire than this!

As he looked around, he noticed that there were some images of him in the kitchen, stuck to cupboard doors and the oven, but they were of individual patches of John’s skin and body. Each image showed a small part of John, his ear, shoulder, fingers, toes, thigh, knee, and some part of his neck. His own eyes stared at him from the kitchen table, eerily realistic and monochrome.

Turning to his date, John cleared his throat and shook his head, "Is it too late to say 'I can explain?' Because I can. I really, _really_ can!"

Jenna peered around the room at the various pictures and then focussed on one in particular. The poster sized sketch of John's cock. Each and every vein perfectly outlined and shaded. "Um…" she mumbled, her eyes going wide. "This... this is _weird_. I mean, I expected weird, Sarah warned me about weird but...I don't think I can do _this_ amount of weird…what’s to stop him from drawing me? Did he…spy on you or something? I don’t understand this. How on earth can you explain this, John?--"

There was an abrupt sound of ripping paper and Sherlock strode suddenly through holding a recently drawn image of John’s backside, the edge of where it had been secured to the sketchpad wonky and torn. He glanced over at them briefly and then carried on his way, draping the drawing over the desk with a flourish. He seemed proud of it as he gave it a contented nod; graphite smeared hands going to his hips.

“I see you’ve gone back to dating women your own age again,” Sherlock commented offhandedly, his expression haughty and his mouth curled in what could have been a smile if not for the twisted sneer-like end to his lips. “Well. Not _completely_. She’s clearly seven years older than you. It’s all in the neck, you see. That and there’s a typical decrease in elasticity in the breast tissue, she needs a decent bra. – Though saying that, _all_ women do. It’s never quite right. Never correctly suited.”

Jenna gasped, hands automatically going to her bust as her mouth hung open, and she looked between both men, "You're _both_ fucking weirdos. Don't bother calling me," she spat as she walked away and down the stairs, slamming the front door.

John winced at it, turning an increasing glare at Sherlock and took a step forward, edging into Sherlock's personal space, "Just what in the name of _fuck_ do you think you're doing? What _is_ all this!" He gestured around the room. "And she has _perfectly acceptable_ breasts!—Sherlock. _Seriously_ , why the hell is there a massive picture of my _bell_ _-end_ on the wall?"

Sherlock lifted his gaze to it, “I had nowhere else to put it,” he replied, as if it was obvious, and brushed by John, walking back to his bedroom at a slow and lazy pace.

" _No_. No, I take it back, that's not the question I want to ask. What I _really_ want to ask is why the _fuck_ have you drawn a picture of my cock? Why have you drawn _any_ of this?" John demanded, rubbing his temples and matching his step. "This is the most _deranged_ way to stop me getting sex yet!"

“Half of these are from the case,” Sherlock told him with a wave of his hand and a dismissive expression. “I drew them with you standing, _right there_. I don’t see why you’re so surprised to see them again. I was drawing _you_ , you realise. I had to. I wasn’t just pretending.”

"Yes, I know. No, that was fine, just fine. I get that. I understand that you drew me at the art class," John nodded, crowding closer and boxing Sherlock into the space between the door and wall. "But I don’t understand why you have _carried on_. There are _way_ more than when you did it at the class. Why? And why fill the kitchen and living room with them?"

Sherlock looked down his nose at John and then flickered his gaze around the room, “Why not?”

"This is the sort of thing you find in serial killer houses," John groaned. "I can't even handle this. _Why_? Why have you done this Sherlock? You knew I was on a date, a _third_ date. I was wearing my 'fuck me' shoes, which you constantly remind me of, so you _knew_ I’d be bringing Jenna home. Why did you do this to me?"

“ _Actually_ , I thought you’d go to her place,” Sherlock intoned and then motioned to the room with an annoyed drawl to his voice in the next second. “Since the case, I’ve been drawing again, and you happen to be the most constant and interesting thing within eyesight, so _of course_ I’m going to draw you. Most of them were drawn from memory though, so you needn’t worry. I didn’t go around peeking at you whilst you were getting undressed or anything—I thought you’d be flattered, or at _least_ fascinated. You liked Melissa’s drawing of you, did you not? Thought it was ‘impressive,’ even though it was amateur and sloppy and _completely_ disproportionate.”

"Wait... most of them were from memory?" John frowned before turning and pointing at one shadowy sketch attached beside one of the windows. "That’s me in the _shower_ isn’t it? That can’t have been from bloody memory! Unless you've _watched_ me shower?" John scrubbed his hands over his eyes. "Listen, its not the drawings, the drawings are good... _fine_... really well done, but this," he swooped his arms around, "is a _bit_ much. You _must_ see that?"

Sherlock looked around again and then shrugged, “No. They are only here because I have nowhere else to put them. I was trying to figure out which ones to throw away and which ones to keep, and where exactly I would keep them if I chose to do so—I’ll just get rid of them _all_ ,” he said and swiftly moved around the room, jerking the images down and throwing them into a pile.

" _No_. No, Sherlock, don't just throw them all away." John grabbed for him and held his hands tightly. "Just… maybe not put them up where people can see... what would have happened if other people came around, eh?"

“So what if they did? What’s _wrong_ with seeing them? Seeing _you_?” Sherlock asked with a deep crease between his brows, his mouth pressed together. “If _you_ don’t like them, then I’ll get rid of them. Simple as that.”

“Sherlock—”

“Yoo-hoo, you have some late mail dears,” Mrs. Hudson smiled as she quite obviously had a nose at what was going on, brought up by the loud exit of Jenna. She walked into the living room and stuttered to a stop, staring up at the image of John’s penis with widening eyes. “ _Oh_! Oh…my. Well. That’s…that’s quite big, isn’t it?”

John covered his face with his hands in mortification, “Oh God ,Mrs Hudson. I’m _so_ sorry. Please don’t look!” He rushed to the wall and placed one of his hands over the tip of the drawing, the other covering the bollocks, leaving rather a lot of veined shaft left to see. “ _Jesus_ , this is almost _too_ embarrassing…”

“Oh! Is that you dear? Well, there’s _nothing_ to be ashamed of there, nothing at all,” Mrs Hudson tittered, walking over to place their mail down atop the drawing of John’s backside. She gave it an approving and appreciated sort of look, titling her head and glancing around. “As…lovely as these are, I hope they aren’t staying up? The clients, you see and you’ve covered quite a lot of the room… it looks such a mess!”

“Don’t worry, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock told her dismissively as he turned and carried on pulling down the images with angry hands. “ _Obviously_ John disapproves, so I shall be throwing them out.”

John lowered his hands anxiously, “Sherlock, I told you, _don’t_ throw them out. Let’s just not have them up and around the room for everyone to see, yeah? Imagine how weird it would be if your brother popped over… or Lestrade! I wouldn’t be able to face him for _months_.” John grimaced before sighing at the look Sherlock sent his way. “They’ve _both_ been ‘round already, haven’t they?”

“No,” Sherlock replied too quickly, too shortly, jutting out his jaw and then lifting his chin with a huff, looking away. “Just Mycroft.”

" _Great_ ," John grumbled rubbing his temples. "Might as well open a bloody exhibit, come and see Dr Watson's cock and bollocks!" He turned and taking a deep breath, signalled at them all as calmly as he could. "Take them down. You can keep them, but you're not to put them up around the communal areas... if you feel the need to have them on the walls do it in your _own_ room. – Though I’d prefer if you just slapped them all in a folder and kicked the whole lot under your bed…"

“Oh this one is _lovely_ ,” Mrs Hudson suddenly commented, her head slanted aside as she admired a drawing of John standing over the sink in the bathroom. He was shaving and entirely naked, his eyes looking out at the viewer from the reflection of the mirror. “ _Look_ at that expression. Gorgeous! This one should definitely be up in a museum somewhere.”

Sherlock preened in response with a light blush and a small smile, yet continued to take all the images down, piling them up and shoving them aside in the corner, his shoulders stiff and his neck and ears red, “They’re just doodles, Mrs Hudson. Mere sketches. I’ve barely spent much time or effort on them.”

“This is _utterly_ surreal,” John mumbled to himself looking between Mrs Hudson and Sherlock. His elderly landlady was complimenting his flatmate on his artistic skills, when the very subject he had drawn was in the room listening. John sat in his chair and looked around, looking over the other various pictures of himself in every position he could imagine including…. “Sherlock… is that me asleep?”

“Possibly,” Sherlock muttered as he gathered it up and went into the kitchen, collecting the drawings from there too.

Mrs. Hudson wandered over to another image and bent slightly to see it better, “Are they _your_ hands on John’s shoulder, Sherlock? It’s beautiful.”

Sherlock darted back over and snatched up the drawing, “ _No_. Absolutely not—don’t you have something better to do?”

“Wait, _what_?” John asked, jumping from his seat in an attempt to grasp the paper from Sherlock’s fingers. When Sherlock struggled away, John grabbed for both bony wrists in one hand and arched up on his toes to take it from Sherlock’s hands, but he was too tall. John glared, glancing at Mrs Hudson for backup. “Tell him. Tell him to show me!”

“Who do you think she is, my mother?” Sherlock scoffed and folded the paper quickly, scowling at everyone and wrestling away from John. “Anyway, I said she was incorrect. It was your hand, not mine—”

“Are you sure, dear?” Mrs Hudson said with a glint in her eyes. “It looked _very_ much like—”

“You were _mistaken_ ,” Sherlock snapped, closing his mouth in annoyance.

“Don’t be an arse!” John shouted and searched for other pictures that featured them together. He couldn’t see any to his…relief? Disappointment? John wasn’t sure, as he walked to the window and began to carefully peel away papers, which had been sticky-taped straight to the glass. He stopped to admire the drawings as he collected them, the shapes and definition in each picture was beautiful, almost majestic and he found himself slightly happy with his appearance in them despite the obvious privacy barriers they crossed.

Sherlock dumped a huge pile into his bedroom huffily and then came back to seize the ones John had taken down, glowering at him as he did so. When the last drawing was collected, Sherlock disappeared in his bedroom with a slam of his door, and Mrs Hudson clicked her tongue after him and waved her hands.

“He’s always so _moody_ when you’ve been on a date,” she commented and began to tidy the place up a bit, humming under her breath.

“Yeah, well, I’m always moody when he ruins them,” John spat before shaking his head, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snipe at you. He’s just so irritating. I’m sure he does it on purpose now. It’s like a game, ‘how fast can Sherlock Holmes piss off John’s date.’” He sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly. “I’ve never been that harsh about his eccentricities, he can dissolve things in the bath and keep fingers in the fridge whenever he wants. I just want a night off. That’s all I ask. Spend time with a nice girl and… well…” he trailed off then added, “let off some steam.”

“Why not spend the time with _him_?” Mrs Hudson said offhandedly, noticing the pile of plates in the sink and going over to wash them. “I really wish that boy would learn to clean up—sometimes I worry about what it is I’m washing…”

John followed her to the sink and picked up the tea-towel to dry and put away, “It’s not that I _don’t_ like spending time with Sherlock, I _do_ , he’s my best friend, but there are times I need a break. There are things I want to do away from him. Certain things I want to do with my dates that Sherlock isn’t interested in--I mean… movies and the theatre and the likes…”

Mrs. Hudson nodded and then shifted her shoulders with a wide smile, “How do you know he won’t be interested unless you ask him?—John, love, I know that Sherlock can be… _frustrating_ , but if you didn’t mean so much to him, he wouldn’t put in _all_ that effort, now would he?” She glanced at him with a light laugh, hands already frothing up a mound of bubbles as she scrubbed at a coffee stained mug, and sighed. “Since you’ve been in his life he’s changed, not completely mind you, but enough to be noticeable. He’s happier with you here. He puts up with more, for _you_. He tries to be nicer and he looks to you for approval and praise for the nice things he does--”

John exhaled so roughly it was more of a hiss, and lowered his head, “How is it that he can _ruin_ my dates, draw me _secretly_ in the shower and then _storm off_ when I ask him to take them down, yet things are always _my_ fault?” he griped. “I can’t have sex because Sherlock doesn’t like my choice of girlfriends, so I just have to make more of an effort with _him_ to compensate?”

“What? No, that’s not what I—”

John shook his head, “I’m _tired_ of all this, Mrs H. And I’m more than a bit fed up with _him_ , so I think it best if I just… go to bed. Goodnight,” he said with a forced smiled, giving her a peck her on the cheek before pottering to bed, feeling dejected and confused.

Despite how ridiculous the entire situation was, including his reaction to it; John couldn’t help feeling annoyed and despondent from the whole thing. It wasn’t his fault, at all, yet he still felt somehow responsible for how things had gone. If he hadn’t have agreed to Sherlock’s stupid terms and gotten naked in front of a bunch of strangers, he wouldn’t have met or flirted with Melissa, which wouldn’t have irritated Sherlock, that wouldn’t have led to the man finishing the case alone, and then locking himself in his room for a fortnight apparently adding to the stash of naked drawings of John, and wouldn’t have ended with John’s lovely Jenna sprinting out the door. It was stupid to think it, John knew. The ifs and buts weren’t healthy to dwell over, especially if it meant blaming oneself for not having the irrational foresight to see them. So why did he feel this way? Why did he automatically feel like others blamed him for what he mostly couldn’t control? What could he do to make them all happy? Why did he even have to make them happy? Why couldn’t he think of himself and enjoy life, enjoy company, without being pestered and reprimanded?

Even if he wasn’t being blamed, even if he didn’t blame himself, it still centred around him, didn’t it? Why? Why couldn’t John just have his work life, his life with Sherlock, and his romantic life without hassle if they briefly merged?

Unable to get to sleep, John slipped a hand between the sheets and gave his cock a few rather pathetic tugs in an attempt to both distract himself and cure the tension in his body, but found his heart just wasn’t in it and so stopped with a sigh. He lay still instead, staring at the ceiling, going over the last few disastrous weeks in his mind, letting it all play out in the hopes that doing so meant he could get it all out of his system, though it only led to more and more. Why, when something recent affected you, did the mind then dredge up other memories from as far back as childhood?

Three hours later, after fruitlessly twisting thoughts, questions, and playing the embarrassing moments of his life around in his head on loop, John was brought from his torturous stupor by a soft knock at his bedroom door. Before John could so much as sit up and check the time, the door opened and Sherlock entered without waiting for a reply. He glanced around John’s bedroom idly, his hands moving behind his back, and then walked to stand beside the bed, clearing his throat.

“…Yes? Can I help you?” John quipped when nothing came of it.

“I’m… sorry, John,” Sherlock murmured, flitting his eyes around the room again.

“Come again?” John frowned, pushing up slightly and blinking at the statue above him. “Did you just _apologise_?”

Sherlock pursed his mouth, something John had seen him do many times for many different reasons, “Yes,” he answered in short, sounding somehow annoyed and contrite in one breath. He then looked expectantly at John, something that might have come across as nervous if Sherlock hadn’t have arched one of his eyebrows.

"Right. Okay," John nodded. "Erm... well, thank you Sherlock, but… what exactly are you apologising _for_? Have you... oh Jesus, you haven’t flooded the kitchen again have you?"

“What?” Sherlock frowned, shaking his head with a roll of his eyes. “ _No_. No, I’m…apologising for upsetting you earlier. For the drawings and your date that was cut short because of them—Unless, I don’t need to?”

John squinted up at him in suspicion for a second, but then relented, considering he had come up to say sorry, something he didn’t often do, “Ah, yes… good. It’s nice you apologised, I appreciate that. – And _yes_ , I was upset. I’m tired of constantly having to explain weird situations; the crimes and murderers I can handle, but explaining to a woman why my flatmate is drawing my penis is harder to explain.” John chuckled at turn of phrase. “I just… it’s—It doesn’t matter anymore. Thank you for the apology.”

Sherlock nodded, looking content with the outcome, and then awkwardly reached over to pat John’s shoulder, his fingers warm weights at the base of John’s neck, “Good,” he said in reply and moved to John’s door. He paused there however, rubbing his fingertips together, decided on something and turned to walk back, where he bent quickly to kiss John’s cheek.

Shocked with the action, John impulsively touched the spot, looking over his friend with confusion. His eyes met Sherlock’s for a second, searching, unsure if he should ask or chastise him for such an odd and strange addition, then dropped them to the carpet, “Er… thanks.”

“What?” Sherlock asked, bringing John’s gaze back up. “Did I do it wrong? Mrs Hudson said that it would be fine. That it would make more of an impact. – I realise that men who are friends don’t usually kiss cheeks. Not unless they’re from foreign planes, of course. There’s a lot of cheek kissing around Europe.— Though even then it’s not always an actual kiss, is it? It’s more of an air kiss. They don’t…don’t exactly…go in for skin-to-skin contact. So, perhaps it was…incorrect to presume that it was all right. I’ll not do it again.” Sherlock was rambling with a gathering frown, his eyes fixed on John as he backed away, heading for the door again. It was so bizarre that John could do nothing but watch. “Well. No matter. No real harm done, is there? Good night, John.”

“ _Wait_ , Sherlock!” John called, snapping from his daze, hand held out in mid-air to both stop the man and calm him. “You…you, um, you didn’t do it wrong. You were fine. _It_ was fine. Good in fact. It was… nice. Very. I, uh, appreciate it. – We’ll talk tomorrow okay? Sleep well.”

Sherlock shot him a quick smile and then left, shutting the door behind him, and just as it clicked shut, John heard him step to the top of the stairs with a sudden intake of breath, bellowing down from his perch, “I’ve done it, Mrs. Hudson! Now, stop hassling me.” The sound of him descending the stairs followed, loud and energetic, and from bellow John heard the muffled, frustrated reply of Mrs. Hudson voice.

Snorting, unable to stop the abrupt outpour of amused fondness from bursting from him, John giggled and shook his head, turning onto his side feeling as if a weight had been lifted. He listened for a while to the subdued words of conversation between the man and their landlady until the flat became quiet once more, and grinned into his pillow as sleep finally took him.

* * *

The next morning the living room was tidy but for a large drawing of John’s shoulder that covered the entirety of the mirror above the fireplace. It was of John’s injury and the scar was detailed and precise, as were the freckles and texture of skin over and around it. In the drawing, John had been sketched faintly looking over his shoulder and so his eye was visible, looking just as realistic as the rest. It was a bit unnerving, staring into his own single gaze. The stare looked sad, looked defiant, as if daring comment to be taken of the wound dug through the soft flesh.

Sherlock was sat in his chair, John’s laptop on his knees as he typed, eyes fixed on the screen. When was he going to stop using John’s and use his own? Where even was it? Had he broken it?

Scratching his stomach as he plodded into the kitchen, John tried not to let his annoyance at the use of his laptop and his uneasiness at the image get to him, and looked away immediately, letting routine take over as he poured himself and Sherlock a cup of tea. “Morning…” He took the freshly made tea to Sherlock’s side, tapped the man gently on the foot, and took another glimpse at the picture as he handed the steaming mug over. It was worse close up. The sight made him more self-conscious, more uneasy. “Do…uh, can we not have a different one there? I’d prefer the knob over that.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked him without looking up, lips already balanced on the edge of the mug as he took a sip of tea with a hum of thanks. “I like it.”

“It’s just… I’ve never really seen the back of it like that…nor wanted to,” John grimaced looking at the exploded, jagged imprint, which had taken so much of his life away. “Only once or twice in the mirror, and even then I couldn’t face the sight of it for long.” He looked away, putting his own tea down on the small side table. “I… I’m not comfortable looking at it. No matter the medium.”

“It’s imperfectly perfect and a part of _you_. You can’t avoid it forever. – It shows your courage, determination and strength. I put it up to show you that you shouldn’t be ashamed or embarrassed by it. _Ever_. It’s quite lovely,” Sherlock murmured, still not looking. He typed one handed, deft and confident and arrogantly showy. “Do we have any of the biscuits I like?”

John clenched his jaw and glared, desperately trying to control his anger, his breathing, trying to recall everything Ella had suggested, “What do _you_ know about it? What do you know about _any_ of it?” John growled, realising that he probably shouldn’t have said anything, because he was already rapidly losing his cool. “Your body is _perfect_. _Flawless_. You have _no_ idea how it feels to have _that_ staring back at you! To have to look at it day in, day out. To be marked as a _failure_. I failed, Sherlock. I failed _so_ many things that day. I didn’t pay even attention and I failed!” He stepped close to the fireplace, to the mirror, and angrily yanked the paper from it’s tape, ripping it.

Now Sherlock looked, “John—!”

“Courage?” John spat, face hot. “I lay on the desert floor and screamed, Sherlock. I begged and I cried and I howled. There was _nothing_ courageous or noble about what I did, what happened! I lay there in agony, thinking I was dying, pleading to the heavens above, to anyone that could hear me, not to go. I fucking shat myself I was in so much pain. And then, when I came home after being discharged, after the fever and the surgery and the therapy, I wanted to _kill_ myself. – It was only cowardice that stopped me. It wasn’t courage, determination or strength that pulled me through, that I lived. It wasn’t anything like that. I was a coward, Sherlock. A sniffling _coward_!”

“ _John_ …”

He yanked at the picture once more, tearing it down completely, and then ripped it in half, and then again, and again, and again. Staring at the drawing of his scar being crumpled, broken and torn away as though it would be someway therapeutic, “I _don’t_ want to see it. Not now, not here, not _ever_. Do you _understand_?” Throwing the scraps to the floor, John turned and stormed out of the flat, forgetting his coat and mobile in his haste to escape.

“John! _John_ , stop!” The sound of Sherlock running behind him made it worse, and he jerked with a snarl when Sherlock reached out and grabbed his arm, “John, wait…”

Furious tears blurred his sight as he continued on his way out the door and down the street, and John viciously wiped them away in a hope that Sherlock wouldn’t see. He hadn’t intended on being so honest, and he hadn’t intended on ripping up the picture either, but the repressed memories and emotions over the scar, over everything, were burning him up inside and he couldn’t hold it in any further, “Sherlock… just… go back. Leave me alone and _go back_ – I’m going to the shops, for biscuits, your favourite ones.” John tried to get loose from Sherlock’s grip, shooting a glance in his direction as his chin wobbled pathetically. “I won’t be long…”

“No, wait, _please_. John…I didn’t mean this. It wasn’t my intention to upset you,” Sherlock replied with a small frown of concern, his eyes darting everywhere at once when he succeeded in pausing John’s shaking, angry stride. “I thought that…if I just…showed you how _amazing_ you are—I didn’t mean to…offend or presume anything, but I…I thought that…” Sherlock trailed off and scratched the back of his head awkwardly tugging at John to get him closer. “John…”

“I _know_ ,” John whispered sadly, looking away. “I know you had good intentions. You wanted to make me feel better but I just… _can’t_. Not about this.” After a deep, albeit trembling inhale, he took Sherlock’s hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’m okay. I’m just… I’m just going to go for a bit of a walk, then I’ll come home, yeah? With biscuits.” He scrubbed at his eyes again and huffed a laugh, feeling ashamed and immensely pathetic. “Look at me, bloody daft old sod crying in public. I’ll have my British citizenship taken away from me if I’m not careful. It’s…not on.”

Sherlock sighed and stepped nearer, crowding in when people walked past them, “ _Forget_ about the biscuits. I don’t care about the damn biscuits, John. I care about…about—”

“I _know_ , Sherlock. I know.” 

“…You’ll come straight back?” Sherlock asked and tried to catch his gaze. “Do you…would you like a…hug? That’s what people do in situations like this, yes? Hug one another? I could hug you…do you _want_ that? I’ll…I want to…I want to make it better.”

“Maybe back at home,” John smiled, wiping another tear away. “I’m not sure I could hold it together if you hugged me… and _stop_ being nice, you’re making me suspicious.” He laughed thickly with a snort and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “It’s a little bit scary too. I don’t know what to do when you’re being nice.” John finally met Sherlock’s gaze and nodded at the questioning look to them. “I’ll be straight home, yeah, just let me… give me a little while to pull myself together. I’m sorry about your drawing… it was really good.”

Sherlock made a small dismissive scoffing sound in the back of his throat, uncaring of the demise of his sketch, and then peered at John before smiling, “I’ll try to be extra ‘not nice’ on you return then. Perhaps I could spill something toxic on the floor? Or start up a new, very smelly, unpractical, experiment. You hate when I do that,” he muttered and gradually turned to stroll away, back to the flat, glancing over his shoulder a few times with his hands in his pockets. He looked dejected and worried. It was a look John wasn’t really keen on.

John waited until the man was out of sight and then crossed the road at a jog. The tears in his eyes stubbornly refusing to stop, giving everything a warped and slightly blurred edge as he walked along the pavement and avoided the other pedestrians on their journeys. He hid within Regents Park, keeping his head down as he followed the paths through the copse of trees, not caring where he was going but knowing that it was a route he’d taken before. Before Sherlock. Before he had found a purpose, a reason, again.

Sherlock was the start of everything. Sherlock was his anchor to the world, was the light he constantly turned towards. Without Sherlock, John wasn’t sure if he would have remained sane, which was really saying something considering the sort of life he now lived. He’d never been around such awfully perfect chaos and never thought he would be. His life with Sherlock wasn’t normal, wasn’t safe, wasn’t healthy, and wasn’t that just brilliant? Who needs ‘normal?’ Normal was boring. Well, most of the time anyway.

Sometimes though, sometimes John was reminded of his weakness, of his ordinariness, and of how different he was to the eccentrically maddening detective. John sighed as his thoughts closed in rapidly, unsorted and confusing, as he remembered his various dates over the previous months and Sherlock’s ways of sending every one of them fleeing. He’d not always do it purposefully, John knew that, and John also knew that some small part of him hadn’t been that upset to see them go. Living a sexless, loveless, life however, was immensely unappealing. Sex and love was something he enjoyed, something he often longed for, and although he could probably live without a partner or girlfriend for a while, so long as he had the company of Sherlock, he wasn’t sure how long exactly that could be.

Sherlock gave him the excitement, fun and friendship, gave him meaning in so many ways, and John knew that, though they’ve never said it aloud, they loved each other, but was that enough? Could he live with only that and only him? That was what it came to, that was what it seemed like his life was heading. The big question was centred on him, on them, on it only being the two of them.

Sherlock saw more to John that most, took pride in having John by his side, and didn’t seem at all put off by John’s downfalls, by his scarred mind and body, but they were still, just, friends. That’s all they’d be. That’s all Sherlock had to offer. Wasn’t it?

A sudden flash of memory overtook him at that thought. A memory of Sherlock’s intense, inspecting, roaming eyes on him in the Life Drawing studio, and then the image of Sherlock’s long, slender fingers wrapped around his sketchpad, his pencil, and then, quite abruptly, John’s prick. With a start, he blinked it away and shook his head, he was obviously losing his mind.

Reasoning, instead, that he maybe just needed to be firmer with Sherlock and insist that he be allowed to try different avenues than the constant murders and thefts, and that perhaps Sherlock should let him make his own decisions with future relationships, no matter what the man’s opinion on them are. Then, if that went well, perhaps John could ask for an undisturbed moment, once a month, where he could have nice sex with the woman in question? Sniggering to himself, he turned to go back to Baker Street, stopping in at the shop first for biscuits and milk. What a bloody life he led.

When he got back, the torn up drawing had vanished and Sherlock was softly playing the violin, his eyes closed and his back to the room. He didn’t react straight away when John entered, but instead let John bask in the music, in the warmth of the room, before he slowly turned and glanced over with a questioning arched eyebrow.

John blushed, ashamed of the tear tracks, which still lingered on his face, and walked into the kitchen, starting the kettle and asking casually if Sherlock wanted another tea. He couldn’t face him properly, not yet, and didn’t want to answer any questions, regardless of what he’d told himself mere moments earlier.

Sherlock, thankfully, didn’t respond and instead continued to play, the notes, the melody, soothing and soft and slow. The song seemed somewhat familiar, almost like the ones that Sherlock sometimes played late at night, like a lullaby, and John was heavily grateful for it as the music filled the living room. When John glanced over at him, bringing in two new steaming mugs to replace the ones he knew had gone cold during his absence, Sherlock wandered to the fireplace, watching from the mirror reflection, and John sighed as he took a seat in his chair.

He felt foolish for his outburst, felt awkward at the silence between them, and began to wriggle uncomfortably knowing that they would have to discuss what happened, the things that were said, and what John wanted to run by Sherlock so he understood what it all meant to him and what he wanted in the long run.

Sherlock finished the song with a flourish and then moved to put his violin away, wiping the bow with deliberately measured flicks of his wrist, “We don’t have to,” he murmured.

John ran his hands through his own hair, “Yeah, but we _should_. Get everything out in the open.”

“There’s nothing to say,” Sherlock sighed and peered at John from the corner of his eyes.

“There _is_ ,” John insisted. “Sherlock, I… you _have_ to let me date. I understand you want me there for the Work, and to hand you pens and whatnot but… I need the closeness from another person. I can get everything else from you, the friendship and the exhilaration and dare I say it… even the love and respect… but I need _more_ than that. I want sex and affection. I want to be wanted and touched, and that’s not something you can give me.” John looked at Sherlock and gave a soft smile, chuckling uneasily. “I just… could you stop scaring away my dates? For a bit? Just scare two out of three away. Or let me figure things out for myself. I’m a big boy, and I’ve been around the block more than I care to admit, so I can handle it. – I don’t know… it’s stupid. All of it. I want to say to just forget it. The whole thing, to just…start over but--”

“Let me draw you,” Sherlock announced unexpectedly, turning to face him, still holding his bow.

John scoffed and raised an eyebrow, “What do you mean? Are you saying that if I do, you’ll let me date occasionally? No horrible smelly experiments the night before they come over? No text messages through the meal? No hiding in bushes to watch us… or at least I hope that was you,” John laughed, eyeing Sherlock closely and lulling it over as he took a sip of tea. “If you agree to that, then yeah, maybe. You let me have my little annoying normal-people things and you can draw me… on the condition that you _inform_ me before you tackle the scar? Or at least tell me if you’re going to focus on it more than the rest of me. I…um, I need a bit of time for that. No matter _how_ beautifully talented you are, I don’t like seeing it.”

Sherlock contemplated him and then strode forward to stand so close to John that their feet brushed, his right hand extended, “Deal— _However_ I shall still interrupt your date for a case. It’s _your_ Work as well as mine. You have two jobs. Your future flings need to know this fact.”

“Agreed.” John shook the offered hand after a roll of his eyes and then grinned. “My, aren’t we civilised.”

Sherlock hummed, went to turn away, but then stopped, “Can I still inform you if your date is…oh, I don’t know, an adulterer?” he asked with an arched brow, still clutching John’s hand, his palm warm and fingers shifting. “Or a murderer? Or a thieve? Or a—”

“ _Yes_! Erm… yes, that’s fine,” John added tentatively, pointing at Sherlock’s smug expression with his free hand, “ _But_ not in front of her. And no doing it in a conceited or embarrassing way. Don’t write it on a billboard or have anything written in the sky.” He giggled to himself at the ridiculousness of his words, reclining back into his chair, but then realised he had been holding Sherlock’s hand for a bit too long, so long that his skin was beginning to heat up and sweat. John dropped his hand as if burnt, and looked idly around the room, focussing on the Bison skull. “So, what _sort_ of thing do you want me to do when you draw me? Just… standing and stuff?”

“Anything you like,” Sherlock told him with a smile, gesturing with the bow as he spoke and walked to the window. “You were quite adept at choosing interesting and creative poses in the art class, so I’m sure you’ll do the same here. With _just_ me.”

John flushed, remembering that some poses had been blatantly flirtatious and showy during that time, and cleared his throat, “Well…I mean, yeah, I suppose, but that’s mostly because I was trying to get off with what’s her name… Melissa. I tried to impress her, which _obviously_ didn’t work. – Maybe you can draw me as I am? I won’t suck in my tummy fat or tug on my knob beforehand. It’ll be a nice surprise for you to draw me natural, in all manners of the word, instead of in the midst of showing off,” John chuckled and took another drink of his tea. “What have been your favourite drawings so far? Can I see?”

Sherlock hesitated a moment and then nodded, “Of course. Wait right here,” he muttered and put down his bow, strolling quickly to retrieve his sketchpad from his bedroom. He opened it as he returned and flipped through the pages, turning it around to face John when he’d chosen, then handing over with an expectant look.

The drawing he had decided to show wasn’t what John expected. Instead of a sketch of John in some pose or another, it was a collage of John’s hands in different postures and doing and holding different things. Sherlock shifted on the spot as John looked it over and his own hands behind his back, waiting. He looked like an anxious child getting his work checked by a teacher.

“My… hands?” John frowned, slightly puzzled. “What’s so special about my hands? I mean… I can see why _your_ hands would be, they’re long and quite striking, callused from the violin and interesting, but mine are just… dull. Short and stubby and small.” He looked at his fingers and then down at the pictures again. “The drawings are amazing though! So detailed and realistic. You’ve even got the skin to look right.”

Sherlock’s mouth quirked at the praise and he reached down to take one of John’s hands without warning, inspecting his knuckles, “Your hands are _anything_ but dull, John. You work with your hands. You talk with them. I can tell a lot about you by looking at them. Can trace each and every line and callus and scar, and know how, when and where. Your hands don’t just tell me your past, but _our_ past. I remember the first time we met by looking at your hands—They’re fascinating. And _yours_. And they are far better than my own in a lot of ways,” he rumbled as he smoothed his fingers down John’s wrist and up across his palm, before pressing his own hand to John’s with interest, admiring the differences.

John’s heart skipped with the intimacy of the touches and he stiffened his posture, but kept his hand still, focussed on breathing and looked up at Sherlock, maintaining their eye-contact. Something fluttered in his stomach as he catalogued the colours in the detective’s eyes, as he remembered the amount of times they looked at him, drank him in, inspecting and stripping him bare. He quickly pulled his gaze away, looking down at the carpet. “So… when do you want to start and where? It’s not like we have an art studio in the flat with flattering lights, so where’s the best place to start?”

“Art studio lights are _not_ flattering,” Sherlock retorted in disagreement, still messing with John’s hand, his fingers entwining and flowing through and around John’s own, over and over again until he unexpectedly let it go. “We can start whenever you like.” Sherlock examined him and tilted his head, inspecting John from head to toe. “How often may I draw you?”

“Oh. Um. How about… whenever you’re in-between cases and I’m not working or otherwise occupied?” John suggested. “I don’t mind if you want to sketch me at other times, of course, like if I’m around the flat or whatever, but if you want to draw me _naked_ , you need to ask? Sound fair?”

Sherlock inclined his head, “Yes,” he smiled and then reached over to turn to another page in his sketchpad, one that showed John in different walking poses. Sherlock kept eyes on John’s face, he cleared his throat and carried on speaking. “I _do_ understand that this is strange. I get that. I merely haven’t drawn for a while and…I _really_ enjoyed it. It was _therapeutic_ …” He winced with distaste at the word and sniffed. “It helps me the same way playing the violin helps me, but until recently I had fallen out of love with it. I had no inspiration. No drive to create. No interest in trying.”

“Ah, well, I’m glad to have helped. Honestly, if this is what it takes to calm your big wonderful brain, then I’m happy to help. _More_ than happy,” John said as he traced his fingertips over the sketches in the book. He winced at one, which showed him with his cane, obviously drawn from Sherlock’s memory, but that sketch was tucked away, small in the corner surrounded by larger ones of John walking and running. “These are _excellent_!”

“Yes, obviously. They are of _you_ , after all,” Sherlock replied with a curling smile before he turned and stole John’s tea for a sip, much to John’s annoyed amusement. “You’re _very_ interesting to draw, John. I enjoy it enormously. I’ve drawn other people too, of course. Lestrade, Molly, Sally, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft…but you’re the _most_ interesting, so I think I’ll just stick with you.”

“You charmer,” John smiled and motioned at Sherlock with narrowed, playful eyes. “And bugger off drinking my tea! You have your own! I brought you bloody biscuits and everything.”

Sherlock looked up at the mention of his purchase and put John’s tea down to stride quickly into the kitchen, rummaging around and then tearing into the packet of biscuits when he found them. He bit eagerly into one, unable to wait, and hummed with pleasure, turning to get a plate to put them on as he chewed.

John shook his head with fondness and began to flick through the sketchpad. Sherlock had some real glorious talent and he smiled as he noticed a sketchy doodle of Mrs Hudson’s beside another of a rather fat looking ginger tomcat, which John often saw climbing over the fences in the back. Each sketch, each doodle, each drawing, was perfect. If John didn’t know Sherlock was a perfectionist, he would have easily figured it out after looking over these. In some of them, Sherlock hadn’t erased his mistakes, so John was able to see the amount of times Sherlock had corrected himself and how he had altered and defined the overall finalised drawing. Like stepping close to see the fine brush strokes of a oil painting, seeing the flow and scrape and drag of the lead from the pencil, and in some cases charcoal, was humanising and fascinating.

John stroked very gently over a small image of a dog in the top right corner and then turned to the next page, where John’s heart instantly skipped. He had been expecting more rough and random doodles, like the page pervious, but what he got was something very different, and he swallowed as he looked it over. It was another sketch of himself. John’s drawn eyes were focussed and half lidded, looking off to the side, face at an angle, and one of his hands was outstretched across the page, resting on the bottom half of somebody else’s face, somebody who looked remarkably like Sherlock. The outstretched hand was in the midst of stroking across a prominent cheekbone, fingers spreading upwards and encompassing. It seemed massively intimate, especially considering the other person’s lips were lightly parted, the top lip shaded in the middle to make a perfect cupids bow.

John took a shuddering breath and checked behind him, looking at Sherlock’s back as the man piled biscuits onto the plate, and then quietly, quickly, turned to the next page to see the next set of sketches while he had the chance. This one was a sketch of John’s fingers entwined with Sherlock’s longer ones, their wrists touching. The next that followed was John’s fingers buried within black, shimmering curls, which looked so unbelievably lifelike that John couldn’t stop himself from touching them himself. What did this mean? What did these drawings mean? Did they mean anything? They were just drawings. Just practice and fun. They didn’t have to have some in-depth, hidden meaning behind them. John took another deep and shuddering breath, gawping at them for another second more, before he then went back to the innocent sketches as Sherlock returned to his side.

“You should have bought more than three packets,” Sherlock said to him with his mouth full as he sat down in his chair, a pile of biscuits stacked neatly together. He reached forward to take back his sketchpad after a quick sip of tea, putting it aside with a smile at John, but then shot him a small frown. “What?—”

“I’m not letting you live on biscuits,” John said with a snort and a forced, casual smile, clearing his throat as he changed the subject. “We’re going to have some _proper_ food tonight. Something with more than two ingredients in it, and you’re _going_ to eat it.” As Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes, John looked at the sketchpad, flexed his fingers in consideration, and then returned his attention to the man opposite. “I’ll pose for you today if you like? You’ll have to position me though, I’m a bit nervous about that bit, but… whatever you want.” He let his eyes linger on Sherlock a moment longer than needed, before flicking them away, feeling shaky and suddenly curious. “ _Anything_.”

Sherlock stiffened at the clear implications with the edge of his mug resting against his bottom lip, regarding John with narrowing eyes for a long tense moment, and then lifted his brow, took a sip and nodded, “Fine. I’d like that. Though you don’t _have to_ pose for me tonight—Or if you _do_ , you don’t have to be undressed. Clothing can be interesting to sketch,” he replied with a vague shrug. “Silk, for example, has a very intriguing texture to admire and duplicate. _Very_ fascinating to draw when it’s folded and creased.”

“I don’t own anything in silk,” John admitted. “Not everyone is as poncy as you.” With a smirk at Sherlock brief, soft-edged glare, he gestured flippantly. “I probably have some posh Marks and Spencer pants that don’t have holes in them, but that’s about it for me. That’s probably the sexiest of my lingerie too.”

“It’s not ‘poncy’ to own something that’s silk,” Sherlock huffed, stretching his legs out and nudging John with his feet as he went on casually, “…I _do_ own silk underwear though. You could wear them if you want?”

John choked on a shocked inhale and coughed, “You… want me to wear your _pants_?” he asked with an upturned eyebrow. “That’s a bit… _intimate_ , don’t you think? – What about your robe? That’s silk, isn’t it? One of them is, anyway, I’m sure of it. It looks like silk. I’ll sit naked with your robe around me so you can see all my wobbly bits through it.” He laughed with a smile, unsure what he was even saying, but nodded at Sherlock in question. “Yeah?”

“You’d rather put on a robe that I frequently enjoy wearing myself, instead of pants I’ve only worn twice? That’s not at all intimate to you? …All right,” Sherlock murmured, eating another biscuit and wriggling his toes in contentment, his eyes on John.

"It's not the same though..." John explained cautiously, "your pants have been pressed around and against, and supported your... privates. Twice or not, it’s a little different." He masked a sudden snicker with a cough, looking over at Sherlock, mouth contorting childishly as he tried to hold back the rest. “Wearing someone else’s pants is like using someone else’s toothbrush, it’s just a bit _too_ weird. And, in some cases, terribly unhealthy.”

“I see,” Sherlock huffed at him with a twitching smile, “I suppose it’s a bad time to bring up the barter system then?”

"The what now?" John grinned with a frown.

“I sometimes wear your clothes,” Sherlock told him nonchalantly. “Not everything, _obviously_. I can’t fit into most of your clothes.”

John stared at Sherlock, mind boggled at what he’d just admitted to, “Wait… _what_? You… you sometimes _wear_ my clothes? Like what? _Why_? Your clothes are way better than mine, and there’s a lot more of them, so why?” he spluttered.

“There are times where I don’t have anything clean to wear and so I borrow some of your clothes,” Sherlock rationalised as if there was nothing wrong with it. “Generally your underwear and socks—I _was_ able to fit into a jumper of yours once…”

“One of my--Was it the green one?” John asked with a squinting glare, “Because I _specifically_ remember asking you why my jumper looked like an orangutang had been wearing it and you just shrugged. You stretched it didn’t you, you git? It wouldn’t fit your gangly arms and weedy chest, and you stretched it!” He laughed shortly, rubbing his face and shifted, looking at Sherlock hard. “And my pants... why are you wearing my pants? What possessed you to go rifling through my drawers to wear my sodding pants? That’s… I mean… I know they’re _clean_ but come on Sherlock! – Half the time it doesn’t seem like you have _any_ underwear on, so why go grabbing mine? They aren’t for you! They’re…personal!”

“ _What_? I wear underwear. What makes you assume I don’t? I only don’t when I sleep—And, John, we _live_ together. _You_ do the laundry. You have seen, touched and washed my underwear as well as your own on many occasion,” Sherlock snorted as he took a large gulp of tea, finishing off his biscuits. “There’s _nothing_ of yours that I haven’t seen by now and vice versa.”

“ _I_ don’t go rummaging through your drawers though. – God, do you… look in my wardrobe and all my cupboards too?” John asked, feeling uncomfortable with the fact that Sherlock had been apparently delving into his unmentionables and routing through his things. He cleared his throat, feeling the oncoming blush as he thought about his private things. “You haven’t, have you? Because if so… I can…can explain about the… _thing_ …”

Brushing crumbs from his legs, Sherlock scowled, “Yes, you do rummage through my drawers, John. I know when you’ve been in my possessions,” he rumbled and picked up his sketchpad idly, flipping to a clean page as John rolled his eyes. “And there’s no need to explain, as there’s nothing wrong with it. Most heterosexual men are too ignorant and rash to try out such toys—Though you _are_ a doctor, so I had an inkling that you’d know how to properly pleasure yourself. It wasn’t a _huge_ surprise finding it, hence why I never brought it up. Bit irrelevant.”

John wasn’t fast enough to stop the hitching inhale of embarrassment and closed his eyes tightly, “The _difference_ is, I looked through yours for _drugs_. On the express command of Mycroft, might I add. You, on the other hand, were just being nosey,” he muttered, taking a slow breath through his nose before looking across at him.“ I’m not talking about the other _thing_ with you…”

Sherlock produced a pencil from his pocket and drew some lines for a few minutes quietly, until he spoke again, “You’re too coy, John. There’s no need to be.”

Settling back into his chair, John drummed his fingers on the arm anxiously, "I’d not say I’m coy, Sherlock. – I _like_ sex. I like doing it and hearing people moan during it... it’s not that I’m being coy exactly. I’m just nervous with you knowing something _that_ private about me. Without my consent, no less. I’m never sure if you'll mention it in front of the yard or Mrs H…"

“ _Why_ would I do that?” Sherlock frowned, glancing up from the paper for a moment and then tilting his head with a faint grin, eyes dropping back down. “Your sexual appetite has _nothing_ to do with them. It’s not important. I only discuss what is of importance at the time…unless your impressive stamina or skilful oral technique are relevant, I won’t bring them up.” He popped the “P” and looked back up with a smug expression.

"‘Impressive stamina?’ ‘Skilful oral technique?’ _How_ do you know?" John raised an eyebrow.

“I have ears, I can hear you, you know,” Sherlock drawled, slumped back in his seat lazily as he stroked the paper with his pencil, with nimble and practised rotations of his wrist.

"Not recently you can't," John grumbled until his eyebrows shot to his hairline. " _Wait_... you listen when I'm having sex? Or... masturbating?"

“Both,” Sherlock replied, digging his pencil in deeper. “I don’t purposely set out to hear you, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m not huddled outside of your bedroom door with my ear pressed to it. You’re just _extremely_ loud. As are they.”

"I'm _really_ not," John argued, covering his blushing face with a hand. "I... okay, _maybe_ during sex, if they're enjoying themselves then obviously I do too... but when I'm alone I keep it back. I press my hand to my mouth or bite my lip." He winced the moment the words were out in the open. "God, _why_ am I even telling you this?"

“I know you _try_ and stifle it,” Sherlock told him, flicking his gaze at John’s tightening, twisting mouth. “But I _still_ hear you.” He smirked languidly and a bit suggestively, but it was gone in the next second, and he turned the page around to show John what he’d achieved, waiting for praise.

“Yeah. Wow. That’s great,” John muttered with a nod, focussing briefly on the details of the drawing, which included his chair and bare feet complete with realistic toenails. He forced a smile and happily took the change in subject in conversation. “Do you want me doing anything special for the next one?”

Sherlock turned the pad back and flipped to another page, “Be naked,” he answered.

“What happened to the robe?” John laughed, caught off-guard by Sherlock’s abrupt frankness. “If you want me naked, it’ll have to be somewhere else than here. I don’t want to traumatise Mrs Hudson if she decides to pop in. –Your room or mine?”

The man gave a mocking hum of deliberation, cheeks tinged pink, and then slid fluidly to his feet, “Mine,” he replied and walked by John.

“Right-ho,” John replied, wondering what he was doing and why he’d even agreed to it all in the first place as he pushed himself up, following down the hallway into the private inner sanctum of Sherlock’s bedroom. He’d just found out, in a very short amount of time, that Sherlock had been continuously drawing naked images of him since the Life Drawing case, that he’d worn his underwear when he’d ran out, that he had found a personal item of John’s via his rummaging, and that he listened to John being pleasured by both his own hand or someone else’s, yet he was still up for posing nude for the man to keep up his drawing obsession. Was he mad? Pulling off his jumper and shirt, leaving only his vest in place, John looked over at his friend. “Erm… where? I mean, where and how do you want me?” He’d tried to make it sound as nonsexual as possible, but it hadn’t helped. God, what was he doing?

Sherlock, who was rummaging in his wardrobe, waved a hand vaguely and turned around to present his silken dressing gown, draping it over the end of the bed when John just stared at it, “You can wear it if you want,” he muttered, jerking into movement to suddenly begin pulling down drawings of John that were scattered over his far left wall. Only just noticing this, John blinked and gave the room a quick searching glance for more. There was one on the ceiling. It was of John’s own face, scrunched up in laughter, like a frozen moment in time. Sherlock quickly got up on the bed to pull it down. “Do whatever feels comfortable…”

John watched Sherlock reticently pull down a few more, and then pulled off his jeans and pants, anxiously fingering the edge of his vest for a second or two longer than he should, before swiftly bringing it over his head and grabbing the robe. It was too large in height but too tight around his biceps, clinging and hanging off him in equal measure. He wrapped himself in it anyway and sat on the bed, shuffling back to let his head rest on sumptuous pillows. Awkwardly, John looked over his position and put one arm behind his neck, the other on his stomach, and carefully tried to preserve his modesty by making sure the robe covered his crotch.

“How’s this?”

“Hm? Oh. Fine. Good. Yes,” Sherlock replied with a quick smile, diving for and grabbing what looked to be a framed photograph from the bedside, and shoved it into a drawer. “Right. It won’t take long. Just the one pose, I think. All right? _Good_.”

Sherlock pulled a box full of pencils out from under his bed and dug inside it, taking out a handful to glance through, choosing three. He gave John another smile and then picked up his sketchpad, drawing suddenly and with eagerness.

Instead of sitting or standing back as he had done in the art class and in the living room earlier, Sherlock walked close and bent down to look up the length of John’s body, admiring every inch of him.

“…Um. So, when did you start drawing? I didn’t know you even had this skill before. With this sort of talent you could make some real money,” John said absentmindedly, looking down and making occasional eye contact whenever Sherlock lifted his head.

“I’m skilled at a lot of things,” Sherlock stated factually, cocking his head aside and moving around the bed, eyes on John the whole time. “I used to draw anatomical drawings of animals and insects as a child…”

“I can hardly draw a stickman,” John huffed. “I failed my art exam. My art teacher told me that it was an embarrassment to have me in her class and as her pupil,” he admitted with a flush of annoyance at the memory. “I _hate_ that I was no good. I always wanted to be a… well… when I was a kid I wanted to be a comic book artist.”

Sherlock smiled at him, “I could teach you, if you want?” he offered, moving close again and almost kneeling up on the bed as he did so. “Then you can draw me.”

John swallowed and closed his eyes, “I… I think you’d give in. It’s a lost cause. I’m just doomed to be rubbish,” he murmured before hiding a yawn beneath his hand and relaxing further into the mattress. The pillows were plumped and plush and smelled perfect. A mixture of the delicious blend of their lavender fabric conditioner and Sherlock’s fancy, sweet shampoo, and John felt himself descending into sleep despite the early hour as he listened to Sherlock gently scratching lines and shade. He felt Sherlock move in and lean over John’s right side, body so close that the heat and scent of him radiated over John in soothing waves, pushing him into slumber.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smaller chapter this time...with a bit of angst.

John tentatively walked the stairs to their flat, signalling to his date trailing behind him to be silent. He had met Mindy in a coffee shop on his break from work at the beginning of the month; they had exchanged numbers, met up twice for two lovely, undisturbed meals, and had just currently been out on their third date. John hadn’t been angling for anything, despite knowing what most third dates ended in, but Mindy had given him sensual ‘come to bed’ eyes all evening, running her toes up and down his calve and thigh until he ended up being so hard with obvious arousal, that he’d been worried he’d either break his trousers or himself before the night was through. Thankfully, neither happened, and even though John had tried to reason with her, tried to warn her about Sherlock, tried to get her to instead continue what she’d started back at her place, Mindy had assured him that she wasn’t scared of the thought of Sherlock deducing her whole life story from a look. Then persuaded him with a nimble foot and flashing eyes to give in to her wanton persistence and invite her back.

Before the date John had reminded Sherlock about their deal, their arrangement, and that there were to be no pictures, sketches or drawings of him in any of the communal areas, which included the bathroom or kitchen. Sherlock had agreed, as he should have, and then proceeded to roll his eyes and flounce off to his bedroom. John had only warned Sherlock as a precaution, but now that he was tiptoeing back, he was glad that he had done.

John walked into the living room, already on the cusp of grimacing, and then released a sigh of relief. The flat was messy, but not destroyed or covered in pornographic pictures of him. It was quiet, dark and almost seemed empty, though John knew Sherlock was still home. He had to be. His coat was still on the hook and his mobile was on the desk, two things he was never without.

John pulled Mindy to his side, making for the stairs towards his bedroom, and pushed her against the bedroom door once they reached the top, snogging her raunchily and cupping her pert bum with eager hands. She giggled and moaned soft in her throat, draping her arms around his shoulders, combing her fingers up the nape of his neck and into his hair, and gripped, grasped, and urged him on with her hips pressed into his.

They fell upon his bed in a hot, writhing heap, giggling and kissing and rolling together, messing up his once neatly tucked sheets. One lone pillow was kicked to the floor as Mindy sucked a mark onto John’s neck with greedy little moans, and then she pulled away to suddenly start striping for him.

She wriggled out of her clothes slowly, teasingly, and John could only stare in appreciation, frozen until she dived back on top of him to kiss and push him into the mattress while she freed him of his own clothes in a frenzy. He couldn’t remember in that moment anyone being as hungry as he normally was to get skin-to-skin, and so basked in her attentions and wandering hands, letting her have full control to do as she pleased. It wasn’t often he was wanted so badly that his partner was shaking with it. It was even less often that he was dominated. John grinned and watched Mindy work. It was everything he’d hoped for.

As she trailed her fingers through the hair at his chest and followed the wispy trail below his navel, replacing them with her lips and tongue. John dropped his head back fully, sighing in gratification, and found his gaze focusing onto the ceiling, and what seemed to be attached upon it. He cursed with a tensed jerk, the action mistaken by Mindy to be one filled with pleasure. There, taped right above his bed, was a sketch of him, and not just any sketch, but the one that Sherlock had drawn when he’d been cloaked in his silken robe. Sherlock must have finished it when he’d shifted during his unplanned sleep, as the robe was parted, exposing his genitals. Back then, when he’d awoken from his doze, he hadn’t seen the finished product and hadn’t thought to ask as he got up to get on with the rest of the day. How he wished he had done it. How he wished he had asked to see it and told Sherlock what to do with it.

“ _Yes_! I can’t _wait_ to have you in my mouth,” Mindy breathed against his belly button, dipping her tongue over it and then kissing down his pelvis.

"Er... m-me either," John stammered, his heart beat increasing along with his building rage for the man who John knew was currently away in his bedroom either asleep or up waiting, with a scheming expression on his face. He tried to concentrate on remaining hard and, most importantly, keeping Mindy unaware of the bounty above her, so rolled his hips, pressing his fingers into her wavy locks to ensure she kept her head down and didn’t look up. Though he wasn’t going to be able to keep it up forever, was he?

Mindy sucked him into her mouth little by little, inch by inch, and moaned, starting a slow rhythm while the illustration of John stared down at them. The drawing was as meticulous as the rest of Sherlock’s art, and the expression on the face and the detail in his eyes, was as if John was staring into a mirror. It was uncanny and off-putting. Sherlock had even signed it in the corner with his signature, the curling of the “S” almost smugly taking up far too much space.

John glared at it as he chocked on bliss, Mindy’s petite, skilful tongue doing wonders, "Oh… _yes_ ," he groaned impulsively through his teeth. It had been months since he’d last had oral sex, months and months, and Mindy's mouth was warm and welcoming, however even that couldn’t stop him from panicking over her reaction if, or when, she saw the picture above. John needed to try and think of ways of apologising in case she did see it and saw it soon.

He lost focus as she increased the pace and suction with a wet breath, pushing her hands up his body to skim over his nipples, rolling and pinching them as they hardened. With another groan, John arched his hips and lifted his head to look down right when Mindy glanced up with lidded eyes, combing back her hair to see him better. The vision she made was almost enough to make him forget the judging eyes of his pencilled self. Her lips were stretched out over his erection obscenely, wet and glistening, and John wheezed as he traced them with a trembling finger.

"Oh God, oh _Christ_... Mindy I'm going to... if you keep-- _Jesus_!" John grunted, flinging his head back against the bed again, and just in time to witness the tape holding the sketch to the ceiling, coming away as if in slow motion. After that, he could only watch on in horror as the heavy artistic paper fluttered down to cover his body and most of all, Mindy's head. John slammed his eyes shut and mentally swore revenge. Why had fate dished him this hand? Why allow him to be so close to orgasm, only for it to be cruelly snatched away? He was going to kill Sherlock.

Mindy, who had frozen the instant she had been covered, then pulled off with a slick sound, fumbling with a giggle at first, before she pushed it aside enough to se what it was and shoved it aside, crumpling it to the floor. She stared over the edge of the bed at it, lost for words, and then slowly looked at John with her eyebrows arched, glancing up at the ceiling where it had been. If John wasn’t boiling with anger, he would have laughed.

“What…the _hell_?” she asked in confusion, peering back over at the drawing. “Is that… _you_?”

"It's.... complicated," John muttered, gesturing dismissively at the drawing. "Ignore it. _Please_. Just… come back here and kiss me... let me taste you, yeah? I've been looking forward to tasting you all night."

She stared at him aghast and then pursed her lips, her expression pinched, “No. No, I _think_ I should go,” she told him, climbing off the bed and standing on, then walking over the drawing, as she gathered up her clothes. John could do nothing, could say nothing, that would fix the situation, that would have her stay, and so watched without a word as she hurriedly dressed without looking at him, stalked out of his bedroom and disappeared down the stairs.

“ _Ah_. Hello, you must be, Mandy? Minnie? Melanie? – No, Mindy!” Sherlock greeted her politely from below, making John’s blood bubble. “Is everything all right? You look awfully upset—Do you want me to call you a taxi?--” The last bit was cut up from the front door slamming shut deafeningly. A noise that seemed a recurring theme in the flat.

" _Sherlock_!" John bellowed, his fury almost boiling over. This was the worst one yet; at least the previous ones hadn’t been frightened off right at the start of something glorious. John wrapped his gown around him and stormed to the top of the stairs. "You absolute _cock_. – I swear to God, if you come _anywhere_ near me tonight, I'm going to punch your lights out. You're _never_ drawing me again you arsehole!" He went back into the bedroom and slammed the door, immediately taking himself in hand in a desperate attempt to get himself off. He had been so close. He couldn’t leave it there. The anger somehow made it worse, made him more aroused, more frustrated, more wanton.

“What did _I_ do?” Sherlock shouted back from the bottom of the stairs, before he was storming up. The speed at which he climbed the steps faltered half way and then slowed, leaving him hesitating on the other side of John’s door “ _Oh_ …it was…it was the sketch wasn’t it? – John, I thought you’d already _seen_ it and moved it by now. It’s been up there for a while. Since after breakfast. I thought it…would be funny…for you to find…whilst you dressed--”

" _No_! I hadn’t seen it. The first time I saw it was when I was getting my dick sucked and it's bad manners to stop them and say 'sorry love, be with you in a minute, I’m just removing this picture of my flaccid genitals from my ceiling'... You utter…fucking… _bellend_!" John growled, hand still working on his cock in a frantic fever. The rhythmic slap of wet flesh echoed around the room. "Now _fuck off_! Fuck off before I…I deck you!—God, you're _never_ drawing me again. This is worse than the last times, worse than a lot of ‘last times!’ Not only did you scare her away, but you've left me with sodding blue-balls. So _piss off_!"

Sherlock was silent for so long that John had thought he’d slinked off until he heard the man lean against the door, “…I could help you?”

"Ha! You _really_ couldn’t," John snapped, giving a theatrical gritted sigh and moan as he wanked himself almost raw. His cock had already begun to soften but Sherlock didn't need to know that.

“You know, you’re not the only one with a very skilful oral technique,” Sherlock suggested with a light and playful tone, before he sighed, shifting his weight. “John, it wasn’t my intention to ‘scare’ her away. Not this time. I…I left you alone on your dates. I didn’t interfere at all, not even when I was bored out of my mind—And, look, you said not to have the images anywhere in the _communal areas_ , including the bathroom and kitchen. So, I put it in the only other place available to me. I stuck to the ‘rules’ of yours.”

John stilled his hand, adjusted his robe around him despite it tenting at the front from his erection, and opened the door, scowling at Sherlock with a set jaw, "You didn’t have to put it on the _ceiling_ , Sherlock. That's just... _mad_!" he barked, leaving the door open as he went to the bed. " _God_ , a few more minutes and I’d have been there. My first non-masturbatory orgasm in months was ruined. Taken away. You have _no_ idea how angry I am with you right now. – I know it doesn’t seem like much, or doesn’t seem important to you, but it bloody was for _me_! Yes there are more ‘pressing matters out there’ and I should be happy I get to have dates at all, but--"

“John, has it completely escaped your notice how big the sketch is? I…got carried away during our little drawing session and so the entire thing is made up out of several pages of my sketchbook, all carefully stuck together. It wouldn’t fit anywhere else in here. I tried,” Sherlock explained as he hesitated and then stepped into John’s room, frowning down at his crumpled artwork with a huff.

"Don't you huff at me! Christ, you're lucky I didn’t have my cock _bitten off_ when it fell on her head," John complained, before unable to stop the sudden, maddening, ridiculous smile that pulled at his lips. Tittering with laughter, John shook his head and sat on the edge of his bed. "Fucking hell, her _face_ though…"

Sherlock chuckled softly, albeit a bit awkwardly, in reply and moved the sketch away with his foot, walking over to John, “Does it help to know that she has an…unhealthy relationship with her uncle?” he smirked as he slowly got to his knees.

"... No. Not really, because now I _know_ where she got her oral skills," John stated with a grimace as he looked down at Sherlock with a frown. "What are you doing? Why are you kneeling there?—Oh _God_. Sherlock, _no_. Listen, it’s…it’s fine. It’s okay. I'll still sit for you again, I just... I was angry and frustrated. Still am... but I'll get over it."

Sherlock moved forward, “Yes, well, allow me to _help_ you get over it by making you less frustrated,” he mumbled and reached out to untie John’s dressing gown with long fingers, gaze down.

John caught them up roughly, heart in his throat and a retort on the tip of his tongue, but then Sherlock glanced up at him and time stopped. Sherlock waited, wordlessly keeping their eyes locked for a minute, then two, before he flexed his fingers in John’s loosened grip and continued opening the sash of his robe, baring John to the cool air of his bedroom. He was flaccid and tucked up into the crease of his thigh, as his cock had flagged throughout their conversation, yet it twitched, becoming active once more, and hardened under Sherlock's flashing, eager gaze as John looked to the ceiling. What was he doing?

Sherlock did nothing for several achingly long minutes, and when he did, he first reached to briskly wiped Mindy’s saliva from his skin with the edge of John’s dressing gown, only touching him through the fabric, before unexpectedly taking the stiffening shaft into his mouth in one smooth motion, hands and fingers moving to lightly curl around John’s hips to pull him forwards and across a wriggling tongue.

"Oh good _fucking_ Christ, I can’t _believe_ I’m letting you do this," John moaned, his brain exploding with the words 'hot, wet, warm, and Sherlock.'

The skilful and hot tongue pressed up against the underside of his cock as Sherlock took him deeper with a soft breath through his nose. Sherlock’s fingers urged John’s hips to move right as he started a over zealous pace, and sucked at the head, swiping along the open and weeping slit. It was glorious. It was wrong on so many levels. It was the worst decision either of them had made.

"I... I know you mentioned my stamina once before but... oh God, _Sherlock_... I can't... _fuck_ , I won't be lasting," John managed to utter, rolling his hips and moving his hands to grasp Sherlock's hair. At the sensation of warm, soft curls interlinking around his fingers, John gasped and took them away as though burnt. He couldn’t do that. Shouldn’t do that. It made him remember the secret sketches, made him recall when he actually had wanted to grip and pull and rake through Sherlock’s hair. He considered sitting on his hands while his hips thrust harder and faster into Sherlock's perfect mouth, and made the bad choice of looking down. His delicious bow lips made a perfect heart around John's length, taking more of him than Mindy, with half the effort, like his mouth was made to fit over John’s cock.

Sherlock chose that moment to glance up at him, grabbing at one of John’s hands to push into the soft curls at the back of his head, demanding the movement, the attention as he swallowed and moaned brokenly around John’s glans. He pushed his tongue over every inch of John’s he could, fleetingly following a vein with intent, and John huffed out a strained breath.

"Oh God, oh _Christ_ , Sherlock, fuck... fuck... _fuck_ ," John cried out, hand tightening in Sherlock's hair ."I'm going to come… you're…you’re making me come—Holy _fuck_ , pull off... I can't... hold...it…"

With an excited sort of hum, Sherlock clutched at John’s hips and tugged him even further forward, forcing John’s entirely into his mouth and down his throat. Swallowing in a rhythmic and eager motion, eyes hooded and tongue fluttering and pushing around John’s hardened skin, Sherlock let out a muffled, vibrating, wanton groan, and gazed up at him. It had John arching his back, tugging on his hair, and then hissing loudly in oncoming orgasm. His cock twitched in the snug warmth of Sherlock's mouth and John could only buck his hips a final time before he was coming with a snarl, his toes curling into his bedroom carpet and his eyes rolling back in his head, as what felt like streams of come flooded down Sherlock's throat. The climax was almost painful and left John shaking with the force of it.

Sherlock pushed his nose to John’s pelvis and swallowed instinctively, and then again with more control. Moaning lowly, he kept John in his mouth until the last pulse of ejaculate oozed down his throat and then slowly pulled off with a wet breath and worked his jaw, rubbing his chin and licking his lips. He glanced up at John with an uneven smile when John exhaled shakily and then patted his knee, stood up, leaned in to place a soft, overly tender, lingering kiss on his cheek, before he left John’s room without a word.

What had just happened? What had John done? He could barely think and when he was able to, when he went over what just transpired, he wished he hadn’t. John had just ruined everything, had just allowed the situation to get out of hand so he could reach his peak, and had used Sherlock in the process. It was hard to fully know what Sherlock thought of things. One moment he found it perfectly acceptable to draw and hang images of John’s naked body around the place, and the next he was admitting to understanding that his sudden fixation was odd. What did he think, what did he understand? John wasn’t sure, and that just made everything worse.

He’d more or less taken advantage, hadn’t he? He’d thought of himself, of his end goal, and allowed things to run their course to get it, not thinking of how it may impact relationships.

Cringing in shame, John shakily got into bed, trying not to let his thoughts overpower him and ending up staring at the ceiling until early the next day, still no closer to sleep, and still no calmer. It took another hour, maybe two, before John’s body naturally gave in, and by that time, John had already cursed himself a thousand fold.

* * *

The sound of Sherlock pottering around in the living room and the kitchen was loud later that morning, and John rolled over, a minor headache forming behind his eyes. He tried to ignore the noise, to focus on slipping back under, but he’d already started to stir and his senses were already trained on his flatmate. It sounded like Sherlock was pacing back and forth between the two rooms, humming deeply, almost as if he was singing to himself. The trademark clamour of the kettle clicking, plates being moved, and cutlery being placed down on the table, echoed up the stairs. Obviously the door to the sitting room was open to maximum affect.

He considered shouting down to Sherlock, telling him to shut the bloody hell up, only to be crippled with a barrage of memories of the night before. The vision of his cock being fed between Sherlock's pale, keen, pouting lips was suddenly startling clear in his mind, and John sat up quickly, scrabbling at the covers.

" _Oh_ _fuck_...oh _fuck_ ," he chanted quietly, looking at his discarded clothes and underwear on the floor by the bed. Why did he have to wake up? John scrubbed at his face with both hands, taking a few calming breaths, and grimaced at the crumpled sketch still left pushed to the side. This was not good, definitely a bit more than not good, this was... defcon 5 or...9 or whatever the scale topped.

Groaning he pulled himself from the bed, hauling on some pyjama bottoms under his gown, before cautiously walking down the stairs, a fluttering, nauseating feeling rushing through his stomach with every heavy step. He wished he didn’t have to do this. He wished it had been all a dream, a nightmare, a sick fantasy. How was he going to fix it? He paused at the bottom, prepared himself as much as he could, desperate not to give away his awkward feelings, and pulled back his shoulders as he strolled on through.

Sherlock turned at his entrance and smiled brightly, “Morning,” he greeted, walking away from where he’d just put up a sketch of John’s face behind the sofa, beside the smiley face. He motioned to it and then for John to enter the kitchen, picking up the teapot sitting near the edge of the kitchen table and pouring John a cup of tea deftly; spinning around just in time to take the toast out of the toaster the instant they popped up. He opened the jar of John’s favourite jam, one that had been sitting, waiting on the side, and looked at him. “Do you like my new sketch then, John? Just the face this time. And a bit of the neck and shoulders, but no scar, no genitals.”

John blinked in response, shaking his head clear and grumbling, "What?" as he numbly took a seat, began to sip at his too hot tea, and looked over at the picture. It was a large A3 close-up of John's features, sketched in perfect detail with shadings of charcoal and chalk. The expression was one of rapture, of bliss and satisfaction, and John had to put the mug down to ensure he didn’t drop it. "Sherlock, is…is that... my orgasm face?"

“ _Very_ good. Yes, yes it is,” Sherlock replied with a quirk of his mouth, sitting down opposite John and handing him two slices of toast lathered in jam. “It’s _interesting_ how you knew that—Have you watched yourself in the mirror?”

John looked between his toast, the drawing and Sherlock as he opened and closed his mouth, "N-no... not... well, not on _purpose_ , but I’m aware of what other people's orgasm faces look like so it wasn’t a tough guess," he muttered. "Listen, Sherlock what happened last night...it…I…"

“I _swear_ to you that I thought you’d seen and removed the drawing from the ceiling, John,” Sherlock assured him as he smeared his toast idly with dollops of honey. “And I didn’t think that it would fall on top of you both whilst you were… _busy_. Even if it _was_ quite amusing, it wasn’t my intention, and I’m _sure_ you could win her back, if you wanted to—Although, I _had_ hoped you’d not need her, or _any_ other woman, anymore…?”

John blinked with a frown, "Why wouldn't I? – We agreed that I could date if I posed for you."

Sherlock looked over at him and tilted his head with a small frown, “ _Yes_ …but I had thought that…after…after what…happened you might realise— _Right_. Yes, I… see. _Of course_. Stupid of me, really. That’s fine. Forget I said anything,” he murmured and looked away, biting into his toast.

"Sherlock... did you think that... I mean... we're not in a relationship now just because…because…because, um, _look_ I'm _not_ gay. What happened last night was a mistake. It shouldn’t have happened. _I_ shouldn’t have let it happen. I'm sorry, all right? For…everything. None of that should have gone on. You shouldn’t have felt that you needed to _help_ me, and I shouldn't have... allowed it, but it all happened _so_ fast and I’m just…I…I’m sorry. – Are you... okay with what happened? About what I did? Do you…feel…feel like I…mistreated you?" John asked, watching Sherlock closely, who had blanked his expression but who couldn’t stop the tightness of his mouth. "Because... if you want me to move out, I'll start looking for somewhere else immediately. I will. You have _every_ right to--"

“Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock shot back curtly, glancing at him with a quick, forced, and fleeting smile. He ate another mouthful of toast and then got to his feet and took down the sketch of John’s face, disappearing in his bedroom. When he came back, he took up his other slice of toast, poured himself a cup of tea, and sat back down, picking up the newspaper nearby with an impassive face.

With a sigh, John swallowed thickly, watching the man, and leaned on the table, "It was... just a one off, Sherlock. A _mistake_. It shouldn't have happened and I'm really, truly, so very sorry. It won’t _ever_ happen again." John bit into his toast, barely tasting it beneath the guilt and confusion, and winced as he kept talking. "I'll still sit for you though, if you still want me to? With clothes on, perhaps? Heh. Just, um, just normal…stuff…"

Sherlock looked over the top of the newspaper at him and then sighed, putting it down, flashing John a tight and annoyed smile, “John, I did what I did last night because I _wanted_ to. You did _not_ force me into anything and I’m perfectly fine with what happened _and_ why. We are both consenting adults, so I don’t see a problem with anything that happened. Even if it _is_ a one off—I’m not suggesting we are in a relationship, neither am I suggesting you are gay, but what I _will_ suggest is this; if you need something like _that_ again, then you can always come to _me_. You don’t need some mindless woman slobbering at you just to get off. All right? I can give you _everything_ you need now. I thought about it and I…assumed it would be the most logical…route to…your overall happiness…”

Something twisted in John’s gut and he bristled, flushing hot and going instantly on the defence as he took a loud and angry bite of his toast, "It _won't_ happen again. I was _emotional_ and _angry_ and _sexually frustrated_ , and it _won't_ happen again," John promised, before drinking almost all of his tea and standing, turning to go back upstairs to get dressed. "I'm going out."

Sherlock grabbed his arm with a scowl, “I’m not saying it _will_ but…you _liked_ it, so, what’s the problem?” he asked. “You said that there were things I couldn’t give you, one of them being sexual gratification. So, what if I _could_? What if I _do_?—You only date to get your leg over any way, it’s not like you’ll be missing much or you’ll even reminisce on a certain aspect of your dating life. You barely know the women you date!”

"The problem is, _I'm not gay_!" John yelled back, twisting from Sherlock's grasp. "I... _yes_ , okay, I _liked_ it, but do you want to know why? Because it was _convenient_! I've been without for months, Sherlock! _Any_ sexual stimulation was going to be pleasant in the state I was in. I could rub myself against a raw chicken and probably get off! – Thanks, but no thanks. I'll manage."

Sherlock straightened, dropping his arms to his side loosely, “Fine,” he said coldly, tone brisk yet flat. “ _Understood_.” He stared at him with a dull gaze, unmoving, until John couldn’t stand it any longer and turned, rushing up the stairs and leaving without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very silly, confused, scared John there, who clearly was acting on impulse.
> 
> Don't blame him. He's still in shock.


	4. Chapter 4

John splashed aftershave around the hinges of his jaw and on his throat, and smiled at his reflection. His dates with Jennifer had been going particularly well since they had met a few weeks previous in Tesco, and after taking her to cheap, cosy, small diners and cafés because of his low funds, he’d finally saved up enough money to book them into a fairly posh Italian restaurant for a meal. A meal where he would ask her officially to be his girlfriend. At the mere thought of her, of the question, and her reaction, he felt butterflies in his stomach and scoffed at his own ridiculousness, wondering what Sherlock would say. John’s smile slid off his face, his mind suddenly full of him, and he sighed, gut twisting on guilt and shame. What would Sherlock say, indeed?

Sherlock hadn’t said much at all since their argument the day after the ‘incident,’ as John had taken to calling it mentally. Instead he had decided to ignore John completely and pretend that he just didn’t exist, refusing to answer John’s questions or texts, and then avoiding him wholly by being out of the house when John returned from work. John had originally been thankful for the space to breathe, to be allowed to endure his small sexuality crisis in peace, but once he’d wrapped his mind around the situation, once he’d stopped squirming in bed at night with guilt, shame, self-anger and distress, losing sleep, he noticed very quickly how much he missed Sherlock’s company and friendship.

Leaving the bathroom, John walked to the living where the man in question was sprawled out across the sofa and nudged his prone form with his leg, “I’m… going out. Do you need anything before I do? – You don’t need to speak to me, but can you at least give me a gesture to prove you haven’t gone deaf and dumb please?” John mumbled.

“ _Why_ would I need anything? Especially from you?” Sherlock intoned after a bout of silence, his words emotionless and deep. He had his eyes closed, fingers under his chin, and didn’t move or look at John as he spoke. He hadn’t looked at John for a month and a half.

John clenched his jaw, feeling a pang in his chest, and shook his head, “No reason.” He turned and toed on his shoes, brushing down his clothes, before giving a final look at Sherlock. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m sorry about what I said, what happened. I was out of line and…I’m _sorry_. I’ll _always_ be sorry for it.”

It wasn’t a long journey and soon John was standing outside, a wide smile on his face as he watched Jennifer walk towards him, looking beautiful in a long, brightly coloured dress and tasteful makeup. John kissed her cheek and opened the door to the restaurant for her, ushering her inside to settle down at their table, and order food and wine, “You look _beautiful_.”

“Why thank you,” she replied with an easy-going and sweet smile, the dimples in her cheeks appearing as she leaned her elegant chin on one upturned hand. John loved dimples on a woman. “You don’t look too bad, yourself. _Very_ dashing.”

John grinned happily, taking a sip of his wine, “How was your day?” he asked, listening intently as she spoke, whilst surreptitiously placing a hand over his phone. This was normally the point when Sherlock would start texting him with ridiculous requests, asking him to rush home to pass a pen or hold a test tube. John tightened his fingers around the mobile at the thought with guilt, pretending to be focussed on Jennifer’s anecdote and giving a non-committal grunt of understanding. Sherlock won’t text him though, would he? He hadn’t text him while on a date since the last one. Had kept his distance and more so recently. He teased his fingers around the screen three times before he took it from his pocket and put it face down on the table with a brief apology.

“Expecting a call?” Jennifer asked with a lift of her eyebrows and a teasing smile. “Being a Doctor, you on call or something?”

"No. – I mean, yeah... I'm a doctor but no I'm not on call, I'm _all_ yours tonight," John smiled seductively. "I just... as I told you before, occasionally my flatmate calls for, um, consulting detective work. Sometimes we work on cases together when he needs the backup or some medical expertise. I'm sure it won't happen tonight though... it… hasn't happened for a while." John shook the depressing thought away. "It’s, uh, great excitement, as I’ve mentioned…before…a bit different to the excitement you feel from being an architect though. Not that it doesn’t sound interesting. It does. Bet you design all sorts of things. Things most take for granted."

“Mm. Yes. But it _really_ isn’t as interesting as what you get up to—I actually came across your blog last night. The one you didn’t tell me about, might I add,” Jennifer told him with a flirtatious wrinkle of her nose as she took a sip of wine. “You live a really adventurous life, Doctor Watson.”

John shrugged, “I suppose, though that’s only the good bits. It can be incredibly dull too,” John laughed. “The detective TV shows never tell you about the mountains of paperwork… but yeah, I’m _very_ lucky to have the opportunity to work with Sherlock. He’s… well… he’s _brilliant_.” He cleared his throat, once again stuck on Sherlock, on the guilt he had. “Sorry. Sherlock _always_ ends up as a topic with me. I’m sure it’s a habit I should quit. Probably not even that interesting for you to listen to me natter on. – So, erm... did you tell me if you had any brothers or sisters already? I have a sister. She’s older than me by several years. Her name’s Harry. She lives up North, so I don’t see her very often. And, Sherlock, he has a brother who’s honestly a complete prat--” John laughed with a wince. “Sorry…”

Jennifer beamed at him, “It’s okay. I can tell you two are very close. And it makes sense that you talk about him, considering he’s a big part of your life,” she commented as she ran her eyes over him. “I have two brothers. _Both_ a pain in the arse.”

“Are they overprotective?” John asked. “What I mean is, am I going to have to brawl shirtless for your honour?” He chuckled and placed his hands on the table, taking hers in his larger ones, loving how pale and delicate they seemed in his grasp. “Maybe… you’ll meet Sherlock sometime, if you come back to mine?”

“I’d _love_ that,” she purred in response, stroking her fingers and pretty, painted fingernails gently over his palm, then down wrist, looking down at their hands with a hopeful expression on her face and a blush on her cheeks. “To go to your flat. I was wondering when you’d ask, actually.”

“I’m a gentleman, what can I say?” John huffed in amusement. As his eyes fixed on hers his phone vibrated with a text and he jumped, rapidly tugging his hands from hers to check his phone, startling Jennifer. In his haste he also managed to upend a glass of water over the tablecloth and he uttered a small apology without looking at her, his stomach churning with excitement at the thought of Sherlock finally messaging him, finally forgiving him and talking to him like before again. He clicked open the message in a fumble without looking at the ID, only to feel a crushing disappointment spread through his body as he read the text.

**Are you entitled to PPI compensation? Call now!**

“What’s happened? Is everything okay? You…don’t have to go, do you?” Jennifer asked him as she mopped the water with a few napkins, her eyes flicking from the phone to John’s face and back again. “ _John_?”

“No… no sorry about that,” John muttered with a flush of embarrassment, putting his phone back down and focussing on her again. “Just… an old friend. Sorry, so, yes. Let’s have a nice meal, get our energy up, and…perhaps I can show you the flat after?” He smiled widely and stroked her hair away from her face, mind whirring with discontent that Sherlock still hadn’t text. He considered sending a message asking Sherlock if he was ok, to maybe warn him that he might be back with his date, to ask for forgiveness again, to say sorry, but rejected it as Jennifer started talking again.

She continued to chat to him absentmindedly until their food arrived, and then spoke in between small mouthfuls, gesturing animatedly, her gaze glistening in the light and her smile wide and dazzlingly. Jennifer really was beautiful. Her skin was soft, highlighted with a gentle pink on the arch of her cheekbones, lips filled in with a rosy cerise, and her eyes were an odd mixture of greens and blues, like the ocean, like a deep pond. Stunning, every part of her was stunning. So why was he so dissatisfied?

He grinned at her softly and for a moment, as she looked up at him from under her lashes, they caught the light in a different way, and suddenly they looked shockingly familiar to Sherlock’s eyes. “So, tell me more about your adventures with your detective flatmate,” she asked with a giggle as she cut up her meat with her knife daintily. “The ones you don’t write up, as I noticed that the blog hasn’t been updated for a bit, but you must have more to share? Secret spy mission-like cases maybe? Ones that come from nowhere. Otherwise why do you check your phone so often?”

“Uh.” John bit his lip as his thoughts were swamped with images of Sherlock on his knees, John’s prick between his lips as he looked up and swallowed, one eyebrow quirked. Twitching at the mental image, John coughed to clear his throat and accidently dropped his cutlery onto the plate with a clatter. “I, um, I can’t really mention them though, can I? Top secret ones or…whatever. Not really good to go… blabbering about that sort of thing, heh. – Not that we get those types really. We just do the normal detective things… look for evidence, catch bad guys… it’s mostly Sherlock and his incredible, brilliant brain that ends up leading us in the right direction,” he admitted before happening to glance above Jennifer’s head and catch sight of a nest of brown curls.

“Well, you help too, John. Having you there must be somewhat beneficial, you must ignite some sort of solution--” Jennifer stopped talking with wide eyes as John found himself springing to his feet, a writhing in his gut. As he stood he absently knocked the table with his legs, causing her to drop a portion of her food into her lap.

John blinked, rushing around the table as the curly haired man turned, looking absolutely nothing like Sherlock, “I’m _so_ sorry Jen! God…so sorry!” John cringed. “ _Jesus_ , I have _no_ idea what’s going on with me tonight.”

“It’s…it’s okay,” Jennifer laughed as she cupped the food in a napkin to deposit on her plate, smiling tightly when a passing waiter stopped to help and take her plate away when she no longer wished to eat. “Are _you_ okay though? I mean, is…is something wrong? You...you’ve always seemed a bit distant, you know? A bit preoccupied. I thought it was just how you were, what with being a doctor, but…”

John smiled wonkily and shook his head, knowing he couldn’t exactly explain his troubles or say ‘I’m sorry, I was thinking about how gorgeous my flatmate looked on his knees in front of me when he sucked my cock.’ He thought fast, “Yeah. Um. You’re right about the doctor thing, from before, but…for tonight I…uh, I have a confession,” he inwardly winced and diverted his eyes. “I was… nervous about meeting you, I… _really_ like you, a lot, so I think I drank too much coffee and now I’m all jittery.” He forced a grin and took her hand again. “I’m _really_ sorry. I’m being _so_ unsophisticated.”

Jennifer giggled and squinted at him in amusement, “ _That’s it_? You drank too much coffee because you were nervous? – You are so _adorably_ sweet, John,” she cooed, squeezing his hand. “Sit down, okay? There’s nothing to be nervous about. I _really_ like you too, for the record. _Very_ much so.”

“Good, that’s good,” John said, sitting down and taking a sip of wine, unable to stop himself from checking his phone once more. “So, would you like dessert here or shall we go back to mine? I think I have ice cream in the freezer? If not, I’m sure I saw an old KitKat down the back of the sofa.”

“Going back to yours would be _lovely_ ,” she said with a broad and attractive smile, her dimples showing again. “Ice cream and an old KitKat is my _favourite_ dessert.” She winked at him playfully and slowly stood.

“My kind of woman,” John laughed, signalling for the bill and swiftly paying for it before helping Jennifer into her coat.

As the restaurant wasn’t too far, the two walked to the flat hand-in-hand, where John then lead her up the stairs. Yet another date, yet another woman, who he was bringing home. Why did he think this was a good idea? After everything that had happened, what was he thinking? He was nervous to see whether Sherlock had messed up the sitting room in revenge. He hadn’t done anything since the first time but John still checked, still expected images or smells or even the man himself, despite Sherlock mostly sticking to his bedroom nowadays.

John turned to Jennifer and took a deep breath, “He might… he might be a _bit_ much. I’ll warn him if he does anything, and just ignore whatever he says.”

When she nodded in faint hilarity, John continued through to check the living room, immediately running his eyes around the space. It seemed perfectly organised, with no hints of Sherlock’s wrath on the walls, looking just like it had before he’d left. Though now John still had his bedroom to check.

John took Jen by the hand again and brought her up to it, lingering on the landing, “Just… bear with me?” he asked, opening the door and popping his head in, checking the ceiling and walls, even going in to open the cupboard and wardrobe doors to check for the detective, but it was all clear. Unsure if he was thankful or weirdly saddened, John pulled Jennifer in the room and kicked the door closed behind them, bringing her in for a deep and passionate kiss.

“You lied about the ice cream and KitKat, didn’t you?” she giggled against his lips playfully, draping her arms around his shoulders and pushing up against him to kick off her heels. She was shorter than him without them on, and the sudden height difference disconnected their mouths. “Though you’re sweeter and a _lot_ more delicious.” Jennifer looked up at him with a smile, her eyes dark, and reached to caress his face, kissing him again once she surged up onto her toes.

“…You’re _very_ beautiful,” John whispered when they parted again, and he trailed his lips along her jawline and throat before kissing her hard once more. His nose nuzzled against hers, his hands tangling in her long hair before moving down to cup her buttocks.

The sensation of her breasts pressed against his chest was pleasant, but John couldn’t feel anything happening to him. Usually his cock would fill and rise, yet it remained half hard against his upper thigh as he kissed and manhandled her gently towards the bed. Was this because of Sherlock? Was this because his mind wouldn’t settle? Because he still felt guilty about what he’d done, what he’d said?

Jennifer took his hands to her dress when the backs of her legs nudged the tightly tucked duvet, and grinned, “Undress me, Doctor,” she murmured seductively, cheeks flushed and her eyes glinting. Once again, they seemed to change in the light as she tilted her head, looking so much like Sherlock’s.

Although John didn’t really like to have his doctor persona brought into the bedroom, her words and the flash of her eyes, created a sudden a mental vision of Sherlock laid out on the bed like a wanton courtesan, begging John to examine him. John jerked and stared at the feminine body in front of him with a slight twinge of regret that sent him into a worrying spiral of guilt, shame, and humiliation. What was going on with him?

He extended his hands to Jen’s shoulders and pulled the straps to her dress, peeling it down enough to let her shimmy from the fabric until she was standing in her underwear in front of him. The garments were lacy and black, obviously intended to titillate, but John still wasn’t erect. He looked over her body with the detached interest, the sort he had when he dealt with his patients. Her calling him ‘Doctor’ was suddenly very ironic.

“Er… why don’t you lie down?” he breathed, running his hands down the tops her legs gingerly.

She smirked at him in reply and jumped back onto the bed with a mischievous air, squirming suggestively and sprawling across the mattress, a lustful expression on her face. Her breasts were heaving softly as she positioned herself as enticingly as she could, though still John felt nothing. This wasn’t good, this wasn’t right, was it? He took a deep breath as Jennifer gazed up at him and extended her arms over her head and into hair with a light sigh.

“Right…” John mumbled, moving to settle between her legs and pressing his mouth against her inner thigh. He trailed kisses and soft licks against her skin, teasing her slowly, still fully dressed, including jumper, and extremely hot because of it.

Deciding to ignore his own discomfort, John dropped a tender kiss to her mound through the lace, allowing his tongue to lap at the fabric, listening to her breathy moans until he thought he caught the sound of something else below them. It sounded like Sherlock was pacing between his bedroom and the living room, again and again. John plotted the journey idly in his mind, wondering whether Sherlock was all right or whether he was going to interrupt. Was he even pacing? Was that him? Was that Sherlock moving or was it all in his head?

“…Um, John? Wouldn’t it be better to take my knickers off now?” Jennifer suggested with a gentle muted giggle. “Not that I don’t _like_ you teasing me…but I’d _really_ like to feel you against my skin now… it’s been several minutes…”

“ _Oh_ … oh right, yeah… course,” John chuckled, rolling his eyes at himself and pushing his thumbs into the waistband, wiggling them down her soft legs. He dipped down to nuzzle his nose across the crease of her recently waxed groin and then pressed his tongue into the wet, hot slit. John tilted his head as he did so, trying to listen out for Sherlock, giving occasional sweeps across Jennifer’s skin.

“ _Mm_. Uh. Is…um, is everything okay?” she asked after a few minutes more, her stomach tensing as she pushed up onto her elbows with an arched eyebrow and a small smile. “You seem…distracted?”

“What? Oh… yeah. I’m… fine. – It’s just Sherlock, you see,” John said, gesturing towards the door, “he has _no_ sense of boundaries. So I’m just wondering where he is. I want to make sure he doesn’t interrupt us.” He adjusted himself, beginning to lap at her clit properly, and glanced up at her. “I’m going to focus, I promise.” He circled her clit, then sucked it gently, trapping it between his lips.

Jennifer groaned and arched her back, but frowned at him, “It…doesn’t seem like your flatmate is even in,” she told him breathlessly, lifting her hips up and pushing against his mouth. “ _Oh_! Oh…that’s _good_ , John…”

“I, uh, I thought I heard him,” John frowned, lifting his head again to listen and absentmindedly circle her clit with his thumb instead. “He’s normally in here by now…and his coat was there, _right_? Did you see it? I…I don’t know if I looked this time…”

“There’s no one here, John—I can’t hear _anything_ ,” Jennifer said, biting down on her lip as she rotated her hips with a loud, enthusiastic groan, her thighs trembling. “Isn’t it…a _good_ thing that he’s not around? You…you don’t _want_ him to interrupt us, _do you_?”

“ _No_ , no…not at all,” John mumbled, looking at the door fleetingly. He tried to focus again, correctly this time, and licked around her yielding folds, before pulling away once more with a wincing cringe. “Although… maybe something’s _wrong_? I didn’t check on him when I came in… he might be hurt?” He looked up at his date, at the crease of her forehead, and closed his eyes. “No. _No_ , he’s okay. He’s probably just sleeping or something. _Sorry_.”

Jennifer sat up and stared at him, then sighed, reaching for her discarded underwear, “Maybe we should do this another time?”

" _What_? No! I mean... I’m…it’s not what you—Sorry, I'm _so_ sorry. I just... God. I have _no_ idea what to say," John admitted before covering his face in mortification. "Yeah. I'll call you. – I’m sorry. I am. _Really_."

With another sigh, Jennifer smiled and nodded, moving off the bed to step back into her dress, twisting it up her body then slipping on her heels, “I’ll see myself out,” she muttered under her breath and left, taking the stairs gently without looking at him. “It was…good. The date. The meal. Thank you, John.”

“Yeah…I…I enjoyed it too, Jen.”

Following her aimlessly to the landing near the living room, he watched her go, listened to the front door shut, let out a deep grumble of unhappiness and walked to the kitchen. Clicking on the kettle automatically, he started to make tea for himself, before deciding to do one for Sherlock too. He needed an excuse to see him, after all. To find out for sure if the man was there and if he was all right.

He carried the cups to Sherlock’s door and tapped lightly on the wood, speaking softly, “Sherlock? Are you in there? I… made tea.”

There wasn’t a response and after two and a half silent minutes it seemed as if he wouldn’t get one, like Sherlock really wasn’t there after all, or home at all, until however, John picked up on the slight rustling of clothes and groan of bedsprings. The sounds of movement were extremely faint, almost non-existent, but they were indeed there, John was sure of it, and after another moment, sounds of paper being moved, piled, and slid across a surface proved him right. So he was just being ignored then, he supposed he deserved that. That’s all Sherlock had been doing of late.

John sighed dejectedly, but was determined to deal with the overgrown man-child and his silence, and knocked again, insistent, “I’m coming in,” he warned and twisted the doorknob, stepping into the darkened room, blinking to clear his vision, then putting Sherlock’s tea on the bedside table suddenly losing all confidence, anxious of Sherlock’s mood. “I made you tea.”

Sherlock was sitting cross-legged on his bed, his back against the headboard, pillows arranged around his hips, and his hands pressed up under his chin. He didn’t look at John when he took a breath to speak, but the presence he gave off made it feel like he was staring right at him, or straight through him. “Interesting how you don’t even particularly _need_ me to ruin your dates anymore. – You did such a mighty fine job on your own tonight. Good job,” he muttered. “You could possibly try again, of course. Although, she’d be more closed off now. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if you had to build back up to a second try with her in the bedroom—How _was_ that, by the way? You seemed awfully… _distracted_. Not on top form, _at all_. Must have been quite humiliating for you.”

John looked at the wall and licked his lips slowly, “Yeah… Yeah, it was bad,” he huffed with a sad laugh. “You heard it then? My failure?”

Sherlock’s eyes flitted to him, the ‘obviously’ uttered in the one glance alone, “What do you want?” he murmured instead, turning his gaze away.

“I… I’ve missed you,” John confessed in a mumble and took a sip of his tea, lowering his eyes to the floor. “I’m _sorry_ about the argument we had. I really, _really_ am, Sherlock. _Please_ forgive me. I was a _complete_ dick. _How_ many times do I have to keep apologising? Do you…want me to _beg_? Or…to _show_ you I’m sorry by…I don’t know…posting a bloody blog post about it? I’m sorry. _I’m_ _sorry_. I’m… _so_ _sorry_. – I’ve even missed sitting for you too actually, it was quite soothing.”

“We’ve only done it, properly, the _once_ ,” Sherlock replied, his mouth quirking briefly. He looked at John again and then shuffled around to face him, squinting as he gave John a searching once over, picking up his tea. “You _wanted_ me to ruin the date, _didn’t you_? You _wanted_ a reaction from me. You wanted things to be back to normal. Ruining dates and offending the women you pick is considered to be a ‘normal’ thing for me to do, and so you were… _hoping_ for it. It was probably one of the reasons you brought her back here when you could just as easily had gone to her flat— Although, if you are contemplating following up with this one…I don’t recommend her place. At all. _Stay away_.”

John frowned, wrinkling forehead, very nervous, “Stay away, why? Or should I avoid that line of topic?” he asked in a mutter, shaking his head gently. “Never mind. I… _really_ don’t want to know. – And, um, I know we’ve only done it once but… your drawings are good and… I suppose, it _does_ actually help me come to terms with my body. Well, the scar… you know. It took a lot of psyching myself up to get undressed at the art studio and even here too. I’d _never_ look in the mirror, not if I could help it, not to see _that_ … but knowing what you think about it… it’s helped a lot with my confidence and I’ve frequently thought about what you said and—Sorry, that’s probably ridiculous. The scar thing. _Not_ the drawing… which is _fantastic_. As all of them are.” John took a drink of his tea to quieten himself.

“I _love_ your scar,” Sherlock told him abruptly with a small smile, indicating that John should sit down on his bed with a quick downward motion of his head.

“Thank you. I appreciate that. I do,” John said with a smile in return as he sat on the edge. “So, um, have you been working on anything in particular? Any cases or… drawings? I feel like we haven’t spoken for years.”

“Mm,” Sherlock inclined his head and put his mug down as he turned, leaned over the opposite side of the bed, and came back with his sketchpad, plus a pile of separate pages. “Drawings, yes. Cases, no. Lestrade _did_ contact me about at least three different cases, but they were all around a two, and I can’t abide such cases. Even when I’m at my lowest – There _are_ exceptions to the rule, but rarely.”

“Let me see?” John asked, getting himself comfy as he took another drink and reached over for the pages first.

Sherlock handed them over somewhat eagerly and then waved a hand, “Just don’t get angry—I can remember and recall things quite vividly. I’m _not_ stalking you, nor am I sitting somewhere out of sight, deviously drawing you. I _see_ you. I _remember_ you. And I _draw_ you. _Always_ ,” he told John, moving to kneel closer, the scent of his shampoo and cologne drifting with him.

John pulled a face precipitately, but nodded as he began to look over them. The first paper showed his face only this time he was laughing, his eyes sparkling and the laughter lines in the corners gave him a very friendly look. Was that what he looked like? “This one is _brilliant_ ,” John grinned. “ _Really_ good Sherlock.”

The second was strangely, John’s feet, his toes curled into the carpet with detailed shading on the hairs and nails. John clenched his toes in reaction unthinkingly and put it to one side, moving to the last sheet. This showed John standing at the kitchen counter, the milk carton at his lips and his head thrown back as he drank, the lines of his throat so perfectly drawn that he looked almost 3D.

“This is… _Jesus_ , Sherlock this is _fantastic_. I have _no idea_ how you have so much talent, it’s not fair. Absolutely beautiful,” John waxed lyrically.

“Yes. – I drew _that_ one on purpose,” Sherlock told him as he leaned close and tapped the drawing with his index finger. “You _always_ gripe at me for putting back empty containers, while _you_ , Doctor Watson, drink from the carton!” He smirked and sat back, reaching for his tea and then surging to his feet when the handle suddenly broke off. He caught the mug before it hit the ground, but in the process spilled the hot liquid over his fingers, down his stomach and on his bare feet. Hissing, he glared at the mug and then rolled his eyes, putting it down with a grumble.

“ _Bloody hell_ ,” John grunted, already dropping the papers aside, and accidentally knocking sketchbook to the floor in his haste to grab and direct Sherlock to the adjoining bathroom. “Go run your skin under the tap for 10 minutes.” He pushed on Sherlock’s back to coax him onwards when it looked like he was going to argue and then turned to mop up the little amount of tea on the bedding. “I hope you don’t mind tea stained sheets!”

Reaching down, John picked up the sketchbook, which had fallen open, and his eyes were immediately drawn to what looked initially to be a self-portrait. Sherlock’s face stared back at him, complete with mop of curls and spookily realistic eyes, but what had caught John’s attention wasn’t the skill of the sketch, but that between the man’s perfect bow lips were John’s fingers, accurately portrayed in pencil.

John felt his face heat, and all his feelings, all his thoughts, all the memories, came flooding back. He checked the bathroom door and quickly flicked through the rest of the sketchpad, his mouth dropping open as he worked his way through more and more drawings of Sherlock and himself. Most were harmless, them cuddling together on the sofa or John with his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, but one or two were more intimate, showing them almost kissing or the side profiles of their faces, caught in bliss as if as they had reached orgasm together.

His heart skipped and, embarrassingly, his cock hardened in his jeans, faster and firmer than he could recall, with more interest than he knew what to do with. He stared at the pictures, pictures that were suddenly sexier than any porn that John had ever seen. He was so keen on looking at them all, at following the bold lines left by Sherlock, that he felt dizzy.

Sherlock turned off the taps, muttering under his breath, and moved past the open door to get a towel, “I suppose I only have myself to blame with that. I’ve used that mug for an experiment…all right, for _many_ experiments. Obviously, over time, they weakened it to the point of collapse,” he said, more to himself than to John.

“Yuh-yeah,” John replied non-committedly and cleared his throat as he closed the sketchbook, attempting to look natural despite knowing that Sherlock would observe something amiss immediately. How was he going to cover this up? Did he even need to? Something was happening, to them both, and it needed to be out in the open, didn’t it? John couldn’t keep running from it, ignoring it, pushing it back and acting like nothing affected him. He’d already messed up once, he couldn’t do it again. He scrubbed his face and attempted to push the pictures from his mind, without much luck.

Grumpily, Sherlock returned and pulled off his soiled t-shirt, throwing it aside as he moved by John to take a clean one from his drawers. The flash of naked skin, of a pale, trim, lean torso and waist, didn’t help matters. John blinked and wondered just when he’d been unable to see a topless Sherlock without blushing like a fool. This was serious, wasn’t it? Once Sherlock had tugged it on he frowned over at John, tilting his head as he ran his eyes over John’s face, shoulders, and hands.

“ _So_ … er… what were the cases Lestrade wanted you to work on? I know you said you didn’t want to bother because of…the scale _thing_ you made up, but, um, tell me about them anyway?” John stumbled, hoping to distract Sherlock’s deductions.

“…Are you _aroused_?” Sherlock asked with a deep crease between his brows and an unsure huff of laughter. “You could hardly get an erection with your date only _moments_ ago, yet now you—What brought this on? Like watching me get scalded with tea _that_ much?”

“ _No_! No, I’m not aroused, Sherlock. Not at all, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why would I be? What could possibly turn me on in _here_?” John said a little too quickly, a little too sharply. He pressed his lips together, clenched his jaw, and tried to stop being so defensive. “I’m just… anxious. From my failed date. Still a bit shaken from the whole thing. – I’ve never been unable to get…y’know, before. I know it’s fairly common but it’s never happened to me. So it’s a little unsettling…”

“There’s no need, John. You know the reason why this happened. It’s like I said before, you were distracted,” Sherlock pointed out as he moved to take stock of the damage the tea had done to his bed sheets. “You were waiting for me to barge in or something equally as silly. You were _listening_ out for me. Wanting me to be myself, act like normal, go back to how it used to be.”

“No. Well, yes, I _was_ listening out for you, but I was just making sure you were safe. I hadn’t seen you all day and I was worried,” John tried, clearly failing by the look Sherlock shot him. “It’s _not_ like that—You don’t control my _erections_ Sherlock!” His voice was slightly shaky and high-pitched by the end of it, tinged with a slight undertone of panic, and he swallowed, uncertain. This could ruin them. He didn’t want change. He didn’t want things to be different. Yet he really, quite obviously, pathetically, wantonly, did.

Sherlock stared back and then straightened tensely, his right eyebrow arching and then dropping, “I…didn’t _exactly_ say that, John,” he mumbled before he glanced knowingly at the sketchpad.

“I _didn’t_ set out to look at it!” John spluttered, looking at it as well. “If that’s what you’re thinking, which I…I assume it is, then…then it’s…it’s _wrong_. You’re wrong. Yeah. I didn’t purposely intend to look inside it… I didn’t see… didn’t see all of… all of it.” John eventually quietened himself and winced, risking a glance at Sherlock. “It…fell and…”

The muscle in Sherlock’s jaw jumped and he rolled his shoulders, lifted his chin as he looked over at John with a sharp focus, his cheeks flushed pink, “How much of it did you see?” he asked him overly casual.

“… I saw a bit when I picked it up off the floor. I just… _not much_ … just a little…just a— _A lot_. Quite a lot of it,” John admitted in defeat. “But listen…I didn’t _mean_ to. I didn’t set out to just…go _snooping_ through it. You brought it over. You _wanted_ me to see anyway, so…you know. Why else would you give it to me?—I blame _you_. You’re a bad influence. You go rummaging through my drawers and I…”

Sherlock nodded and combed a hand through his curls, “ _Right_ ,” he murmured. “…You saw it before now too, didn’t you? In the living room. You looked through more pages when I was in the kitchen gathering biscuits. Didn’t you?—Don’t answer that. I _know_ you did.”

“Sherlock, I’m _sorry_. I didn’t mean to upset you, but it’s so brilliant that I... The way you draw is _extraordinary_ and God, I’m sorry…I’m an _arse_ ,” John sighed, rubbing his face. “Do you need me to go? I came down to fix everything and now I’ve just ruined it again. Tonight is _not_ going well for me at all.” He laughed humourlessly, straightening his spine. “So, do you… want us to _do_ all that? Or is it just an art thing?”

Making a vague motion with his head and hand, Sherlock looked away, flitted his gaze around the room, and then turned his attention back on John, “Perhaps I should ask _you_ that…” he said lowly, dropping his eyes, with purpose, to John’s crotch. “I _know_ you’re…confused and conflicted. It must be more than a little startling for ‘normal’ people. I know you like your labels and you’re…afraid of so _many_ things, but…” He swallowed and put his hands on his hips. “I could help with your sexual frustration again, if you want? I _don’t_ mind. I suppose, in a way, it was still _my_ fault…that your date was ruined.” Sherlock locked eyes with John again in what looked to be challenge and waited expectantly. “It doesn’t have to be anything more than that, John. _Nothing_ else. Just a friend helping out a friend.”

“That’s _not_ how it works…”

“Yes it is.”

“ _No_ —”

“How can you be _this_ annoying? – John, your body doesn’t seem bothered, so why are you? _Why_?”

“There’s more at stake here,” John snapped, grimacing. “I can’t…fully explain what’s happening in my stupid brain, but it’s not just…you know…all about the sex--”

Sherlock scoffed out a loud laugh, “It’s _always_ about the sex with you!”

“I’m _telling_ you, it isn’t. This is…” John scratched anxiously at the back of one of his ears. “I thought I was done. I thought there were no more surprises in the future for me, not about _who_ I am, the person I’ve grown to be. – I felt _no_ inkling as a teenager. _Nothing_ as a young adult. And utterly _zero_ in a camp full of topless men! I _thought_ I was--”

“Normal.”

“Yes— _No_! No, that’s not it.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Life is full of surprises, John. More so when you live with me. You told me that once, do you remember? Or something along those lines. _Never_ a dull moment with Sherlock Holmes,” he murmured. “Embrace change! Go with the flow. – Let me suck you off!”

John twitched and blushed, “Fucking hell— _Sherlock_!”

“Let me make you happy,” Sherlock told him with a smile and a lift of his eyebrows.

John frowned, “You _do_ ,” he whispered. “You _always_ have.”

“No,” Sherlock replied, equally as quiet. “But I _can_ do, if you let me. – Pretend for a moment I’m a lady…”

Snorting, John shook his head, “No—And don’t you _dare_ start up about cross-dressing either!”

“It’s fun though! You’ll _love_ it.”

“Look, I’m still, technically, with Jennifer, Sherlock – She’s lovely. Really nice. Kind and funny, and _very_ good looking.”

“She’s _somewhat_ …attractive,” Sherlock agreed as he slowly wandered to stop a few inches shy of coming into contact with John. “But that doesn’t mean you _have_ to be sexually aroused by her. They don’t always come hand in hand, you know.”

“…Was that intentional?” John asked with a brief smirk as he raised an eyebrow and met Sherlock’s gaze. “What…are you doing?”

Sherlock reached forward with his right hand and after brief hesitation, pushed his palm against John’s crotch, curling his fingers to cup at John through his jeans, “ _This_ ,” he drawled, watching as John bucked and grabbed at Sherlock’s slender wrist. “How about we…role play? Spice things up a bit? Or pretend this is all _purely_ medical?” Sherlock gave a tilt of his hand as he pressed the heel of his hand in and rubbed suggestively, dragging the tips of his fingers over taut fabric.

“Sherlock…I _just_ said…” John tightened his grip on Sherlock’s wrist and shot him a scowl that flickered and died as quickly as it appeared.

“I _know_ what you said,” Sherlock mumbled. “But I also know what you _want_.” He shrugged at the look John gave him. “You’re dating her, true, but you’re not _with_ her. You _wanted_ to be. Or should I say you _convinced_ yourself that you wanted to be, but you’re _not_. – And she might not want another date. You’ve _wasted_ enough of her time.”

John glared, “All right, _thanks_.”

“Melissa told me that you seemed the type to—”

“Wait, _what_?” John blinked. “Melissa? Life Drawing Melissa?”

Sherlock pursed his mouth in frustration but nodded, “We had a nice chat. Have been having nice chats for a while now – Best you not try and converse with her though. She wants to kick you in the balls—And wants me to give you a slap.”

“Why?” John asked in confusion, bowled over by the sudden information, barely able to comprehend it or anything with Sherlock cupping him.

“I told her what you said to me,” Sherlock muttered. “She told me you were a selfish coward who needed a swift kick to those taut little balls of yours. Her words. She has such a colourful language.” He smirked at John. “I suppose she _was_ a good match with you, after all.”

“The _fuck_ are you telling her our business for?”

“Oh? Ashamed? Angry? _Good_.”

John grit his teeth, “So, what, she’s your _friend_ now?”

“Well, I _did_ need a replacement…”

“I thought you didn’t like her?” John asked.

“And I thought you said ‘everything’s fine?’”

John licked his lips, “Everything _is_ fine…”

“Just not when it comes to us?”

“No, that’s not it at all…” John muttered and swiftly knocked Sherlock’s hand aside. “I’m… _sorry_ about what I said, Sherlock – So much was going through my head and I’ve spent _so_ long defending my sister, _and_ myself, and spent _so_ long thinking I knew who I was. People change with time, _yes_ , but this is a _big_ change. _Huge_. A massive, _very sudden_ change. Not something to be taken lightly or…or rushed into and…and I _rushed_. And it… _scared_ …me…”

Sherlock, not seeming impressed, exhaled through his nose in slight frustration, “Yes, well, that’s because you’re an idiot.”

“ _Anyone_ would be scared of it, Sherlock,” John argued with a glare. “It changes more than who you are but…but your friends, your life…your… _world_. There’s a reason people are scared of coming out, of telling friends and family and…God there’s a reason people need bloody therapy.” Bowing his head, feeling emotionally drained, John stared down at his feet. “I’m _sorry_.”

“I know,” Sherlock whispered and John saw him step back in his personal space to touch John’s shoulder. “Now…about that ‘service’ I offered?”

Snorting with a one-sided grin, John glanced up, “I don’t need it, Sherlock.”

“ _I_ think you do.”

“Well, I _don’t_. Especially if Melissa told you about it – Which she did, didn’t she? The role play thing and whatever else, _all_ her idea, right?”

Sherlock stifled a smirk unsuccessfully, “Possibly,” he answered in a murmur, moving his hand from John’s shoulder to between his legs again, hovering his fingers inches from the bulge at John’s groin.

John clenched his teeth together with a weak glower, but pressed his hips up to Sherlock’s touch, “This is _still_ considering rushing…we… _really_ shouldn’t rush, Sherlock.”

“You’ve had _all_ this time to come to terms with what happened, what you said, and what you want. _Hardly_ rushing anymore,” Sherlock replied, watching him with a heated gaze and bringing his left hand over to unbutton and unzip him slowly. John’s certainty faltered for a moment at the action but kept his eyes on Sherlock’s, staring at the colour of them, at the wideness of his pupils, and shuddered at the sensation of Sherlock delving his right hand smoothly through the open fly to stroke John through his underwear.

John groaned in the back of his throat, as Sherlock’s nimble fingers touched his fabric clad cock, “ _Very_ … stimulating…” he mumbled uselessly.

“ _Obviously_ ,” Sherlock rumbled deeply and shuffled closer still, rocking the heel of his hand again, paying special attention to where the head of John’s penis was. His fingers then mapped out a path over him, drawing lines along the thickening shape of John with deft and eager swipes, and John had to bite the side of his mouth to stop from moaning.

“Listen, we… _really_ …should just… _talk_ …” John tried, feeling light-headed and overly warm. “ _God_ —You didn’t learn any of this via Melissa, did you?”

Sherlock ducked forward to kiss John’s cheek, “ _No_ talking. Done that. Though neither one of us are very apt at talking about…this _stuff_.”

“No,” John agreed, sweating now as he pushed his hips up further and harder. “But…this…maybe we…could— _Fuck_! Sherlock, please…”

“We _could_ do that if you wanted,” Sherlock husked with a smug grin, continuing to touch and tease John in the confines of his underwear for another minute, before he took his hand away, only to pull open the waistband and slip his hand in to touch John’s bare, heated and slightly moist skin. “After this though…” He glanced down and curled his fingers around John’s girth, stroking and squeezing the flushed, wet skin of his glans on every upstroke.

“Oh _God_ ,” John hissed, his hips stuttering and his head arching back. He swallowed roughly, feeling his Adam’s apple bob, and stumbled as Sherlock pushed him across the bed, all but manhandling him in the centre of it. “Fucking… _dick_ —Stop lifting me about!”

“Go where I prompt you then.”

“ _Ask_ me to move!” John shot back, feeling faint and grappling for his clothes. “I’m _hot_ …get this…I just need to…” Struggling clumsily, John yanked off his jumper, his shirt, and his vest, throwing them aside. His brain was almost slush from the heat and the pleasure, and he could hardly control himself, his impulses as he moved a hand to suddenly cup Sherlock’s pyjama covered crotch, feeling the hot, heavy weight pressing out against the fabric and into his hand. He began to stroke inelegantly and looked up to Sherlock as the man gasped highly in surprise .“Yeah. – _God_ , I wish you could see your face. You should… draw this. I _want_ to see this.”

Sherlock’s throat worked for a moment as he exhaled a shaky breath, moaning in a whimper, “You do?” he asked, a tad breathlessly, hand faltering only once while he rubbed his fingers a little hungrily along John’s hardened length. “All right with…rushing now, I see.” Sherlock glanced down at John’s hand on him and tipped his hips, rocking against John’s palm with a coy, fumbling movement.

Smacking Sherlock on the shoulder with his free hand, John closed his eyes and bit down on his lip, “Wait…wait, a second…let me… move,” he muttered, shuffling and pulling down his trousers and boxers. He groaned at the freedom and then awkwardly motioned for Sherlock to do the same, something Sherlock didn’t understand for a second or two. “ _Don’t_ look at me like _that_ and just…just… _please_ …” John needed to feel the rush of orgasm with the weight of another body pressing him down to the bed, and strangely wanted to feel Sherlock come apart at his hands. Wanted to watch the normally composed detective lose himself in orgasmic bliss. All because of something John had provided. Just him. No one else. “Please, hurry up and come here…”

“This is… _different_ \--”

“ _Shut up_!”

With a huff, Sherlock slithered up John’s body and reached to shove his pyjama bottoms down his thighs, freeing his erection with a low breath. Being so close to John, his penis trailed wetness up along the naked skin of John’s body as it bobbed between them. Sherlock shifted position, slotting one leg between John’s and one hand through John’s short hair.

“Yeah…okay…okay—Stop looking at me,” John flushed, unsure what he was feeling for a second as he shimmied his hips, allowing Sherlock to better adjust himself until their cocks aligned. It was a strange sensation, very strange, as he’d never felt or expected to enjoy the feeling of another’s mans cock so close to his own, but the heat and wetness was overwhelming. Carefully John rocked his hips, staring at Sherlock’s crumpling forehead and slackening jaw. “Like…like that do you?”

“ _Shut up_ ,” Sherlock hissed through his teeth, blushing when his penis visibly twitched.

Moving his hand to circle both shafts, John smirked, gaining a rush of new confidence, and groaned as he pulled back his foreskin along with Sherlock’s. Dropping his head back provided the perfect opportunity to look up at Sherlock’s face properly, their eyes meeting in a heated and lusty exchange as he stroked them together. It was shockingly intimate.

Abruptly becoming timid at the look, Sherlock briefly dropped his gaze to John’s mouth and then flickered up and away, eyelids trembling when he undulated his hips, pushing up to slide through John’s grasp in an eager, rhythmic pace that leisurely increased in passion. He was breathtakingly striking in the low light, captivating, and the mottled blush on his cheeks, his neck, was something else John knew he’d not be able to forget. Sherlock’s eyes, his mouth, and the blotchy skin, would forever be engrained in John’s mind.

With the fingers of his right hand gripping John’s hair, Sherlock squirmed and reached for John’s free hand with his, moving it slowly, but purposely, to cup his exposed backside, “You’ve…looked a few times--”

John blinked, “No I haven’t. Since _when_?”

“How _long_ will this denial last?”

“Look…I…I’ve _not_ …” John sighed, listening to Sherlock’s hitching breath when John’s hand flexed on the plump curve of one buttock. The man’s pupils dilated a fraction more, condensing his uniquely coloured irises into thin bands. “You _do_ have a nice arse, objectively, but I’ve _not_ looked—”

“ _Liar_ ,” Sherlock whispered, too late to stifle a soft, keening moan.

John finger walked across the arse cheek under his touch and then seized a handful. “You just have to say that you like your bum being grabbed, you know…no need to make up accusations to explain your actions…” he mumbled, enjoying the pleased expression that flitted over Sherlock’s face. Using the leverage, he rocked with Sherlock harder and faster, doubling their pace and maintaining eye contact, only breaking it when his eyelids fluttered closed with building pleasure.

He stroked towards the crease of Sherlock’s arse as they shifted and pressed his middle finger against Sherlock’s anus, not to enter, but to rub, knowing how it felt, how it could feel, and testing the waters for both Sherlock and himself. A deep rumbling moan escaped him at the stunned and interest look on Sherlock’s face, and John thrust his hips forward, enchanted.

“ _Good_ , yeah?” he breathed, baring his teeth as spikes of pleasure licked up his spine.

“…Yes,” Sherlock rumbled.

“ _Yeah_ …good. That’s _so_ …good-- _Oh God_ , Sherlock,” John grunted, pressing his head back far enough to feel the pull of Sherlock’s hand in his hair. “Oh _fuck_!”

Sherlock stared down at him and groaned deeply in reply, the sound vibrating through John when he pushed their chests together on a particular sharp, responding thrust, one that ended up grinding his throbbing cock harder into John’s own. The mattress beneath them creaked from the strain of their combined weight, the headboard shook and rattled as they picked up speed, and suddenly both of them were almost erratic with desire and yearning.

“I’d let you,” Sherlock unexpectedly panted, eyes hooded but still locked with John’s, fingers tightening in his hair. “If you wanted _that_ …I’d let _you_ …I’d be and give what you _need_ , John. I don’t mind. I don’t mind, for you…”

John blinked, blindsided by what Sherlock was suggesting, “ _Fuck_ \--Don’t. Don’t _talk_. Don’t say shit like that…,” he groaned, moving to grasp tighter at Sherlock’s arse, a little harder than previously, hard enough to leave pink marks where his fingers were he was sure. “I need…I want… God, _Sherlock_ …” He arched his hips rigidly. “So… close… _please_.”

Sherlock exhaled hotly over his mouth and then felt between their bodies to entwine his hand with John’s, twisting and rubbing and stroking them both a little faster, his chest pushing down onto John again as he rutted with a panting moan. It was sublime. It was perfect. John felt his body tense, his hips shake, and he grasped at Sherlock, focus fixing on how the man bit down on his lip and smoothed his other hand through John’s hair, cupping the back of his skull with trembling fingers and a hot palm.

After the fourth stuttering thrust of flexing hips, Sherlock went taut above John with a drawn-out, high cry and stared straight at him as he pulsed within their intertwined hands, spilling hotly up John’s stomach, soaking the material of his own top almost instantly. Throbbing bursts of ejaculate arced and splattered between them as Sherlock bucked shallowly a few more times, groaning and bending so close to John’s face that their noses brushed.

“ _Oh_ fuck… oh Sher--” John exclaimed, uncaring of who may hear his passionate cries. His cock twitched from underneath Sherlock’s twice before exploding with spurts of sticky come, which drenched their lower stomachs and pubic hair. John shivered through it, the worries and future changes suddenly lost in the fog of orgasm. He shook and shuddered beneath Sherlock, coaxing the remaining drops from his prick, and then let his head relax back.

Collapsing against him, Sherlock pushed his face into the crook of John’s neck and panted, slumping and stroking his shaking fingers through John’s hair in an absentminded gesture of deep affection. His penis twitched wetly beside John’s and he huffed, shifting his hips and stretching further over him with a contented noise reverberating deep in his chest. John moved his hand up to stroke along Sherlock’s still dressed torso in reaction, finding himself incapable of not doing so. His fingers brushed along the prominent spine and made soft cooing noises while his head spun wildly, eyes beginning to droop with exhaustion. It was nice, peaceful, and almost too cosy. John wasn’t sure what this meant though, despite everything. Would Sherlock and him fool around together, getting off and enjoying their adventurous life from that day forward? Was that what John wanted? What Sherlock really wanted?

With a sigh, John continued a steady rhythm up and down Sherlock’s back until, it seemed, the man succumbed to slumber, and then closed his own eyes to join him. It was relaxing to have someone against him, another living being pressed skin-to-skin, even if said skin was soiled and smeared with their previous activities that would no doubt clump and dry in the crevices of their bodies. He listened to the sound of Sherlock’s breathing, finding the slight snuffle and moist puff of each exhale exceedingly charming, and eventually felt himself dropping off to sleep without another thought.

**Author's Note:**

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